


And If We Burn

by skai_heda



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Angst, Endgame Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Minor and Implied Bellamy Blake/Echo, Violence, bellamy and echo are childhood friends, like a shit ton of angst, major character death but not our victors, minor changes to the plot, octavia is much younger, unbetad because we die like men, whoops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-05-12 18:58:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 37,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19235155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skai_heda/pseuds/skai_heda
Summary: Sweet, like the cakes in the bakery run by her parents. Her blue eyes lock onto yours as you two shake hands, and you wonder how you're going to kill her.





	And If We Burn

**Author's Note:**

> a lot credit goes to peter craig, who wrote the scripts for the hunger games movies. ur cool. excuse any grammatical errors.

**Part One**

* * *

You're good with a bow. You're good with anything that aims. You can hold your own in a fight, easy.

Honestly, anyone persistent enough who's grown up in the poorest part of the poorest district should be well versed in self-defense.

District 12.

You scoff lightly to yourself, absentmindedly picking at the threadbare shirt you wear to sleep.

And that's when the screaming begins.

* * *

"It was a nightmare," Octavia mumbles, clutching at your shirt, her tears soaking into your skin.

"What was it?" you ask softly.

"They chose my name in the Reaping." 

You hold her tighter. It is your nightmare, too, that your sweet sister would be chosen to be a part of the Games, to fight to the death.

To her death, because you know Octavia would never survive. And that's what scares you the most. She's twelve now, and eligible to have her name drawn by Effie Trinket. Fuck, you can almost hear it,  _Octavia Blake,_ in that moronic Capitol accent.

"I'm going to go get us something," you say quietly, slowly and grudgingly pulling yourself away from your sister's warmth. "Okay?"

She nods, wiping furiously at her eyes. "Okay. I'll tell Mom."

You smile and ruffle her hair before you go to switch your shirt with a fresh blue one and shrug on your jacket. "Don't get into too much trouble while I'm gone."

"No promises," Octavia says, managing a smile.

* * *

A deer. Oh, this will feed the Blakes for days. You pull the arrow back, your breathing becoming slower and steadier.

"Hey, Blake!" 

You swear colorfully as you watch the deer scamper away before whirling to face Echo Azgeda, standing among the green with a smirk on her lips.

"Damn you, Echo," you say with a scowl. "Haven't seen a fucking deer in weeks!"

Her smirk widens into a genuine smile. "I think I can make up for it."

* * *

"Oh, my god, is it real?" you ask, grabbing the fresh bread from her hands as you both sit down in the field. You tear it in half and hand part of it to Echo, and sigh at the mouthwatering smell. Your basest instincts tell you to leave some for O, but you think you can afford to be selfish for once.

"A hundred percent real," Echo assures you. "In honor of the seventy-fourth annual Hunger Games."

You shoot her a mocking smile. "And may the odds be  _ever_ in your favor," you say in that horrible accent, making Echo let loose a rare laugh.

* * *

An unnatural hush has fallen over everyone in the district. You tuck in the back of Octavia's shirt for the third time, and you put a hand on her shoulder when she sees the Capitol officials drawing blood.

"Hey, it's okay," you breathe, stopping and crouching in front of her. "It's just a little pinch, O. You'll be okay."

She gives you a shaky nod, and you reach into your pocket and withdraw the gold Mockingjay pin that Vera Kane had given to you when you'd stopped in the market on the way back. You press the pin into Octavia's palm and fold her fingers over it.

"For good luck," you explain, watching the gold glinting in the sunlight through her tightly clenched fingers.

* * *

Octavia handles the blood draw stoically, staring at her finger with her jaw set as it happens. You wish you could stay with her, but at this point, you must go stand with the other eighteen-year-old boys. You offer your sister one last tight smile before you leave her.

Once you're where you need to be, you turn your head and you find yourself looking at Echo across the sea of people. She turns her head in your direction and she nods at you, her face blank.

Her name's been entered forty-two times this year, and you're not sure what you'd do if she was chosen.

_May the odds be ever in your favor._

You don't believe in any gods, but you pray.

* * *

It's all bullshit, really—Effie Trinket with her bullshit hair and her bullshit outfit and her bullshit Capitol propaganda documentary. The whole process makes you want to gag, your prominent disgust with the system overpowering your fear.

And then it's over, and Effie Trinket is sauntering over to one bowl, reaching her hand inside it to choose the female Tribute.

You cross your fingers in your pocket.

* * *

_Octavia_

_Blake._

* * *

Your worst fear has come true, and your heart begins to pound. It can't be real. It can't be possible that your sister had been chosen.

To die.

To set an example.

"No," you say. A ragged whisper, too loud, too quiet in the square. Every face turns to look at your sister's, who slowly makes her way through the path everyone is clearing for her. Your sister, with her lighter hair and her lighter eyes and her lighter skin, reaching behind her to slowly tuck her white shirt back into her skirt. A hint of gold peeking through her fingers brings you crashing back into reality, or brings reality crashing into you.

"No, I—" you stutter, and then your voice becomes loud and clear and shaky and determined.  _"I VOLUNTEER!"_

You don't have time to wonder if you can do this, if a male can volunteer for a female, and you're pushing past people and Peacekeepers, not bothering to consider the consequences. Because the only coherent thought in your mind is Octavia, and you can hear her begin to scream in protest as Echo fights her way out of the crowd and scoops Octavia up in her arms, keeping her from running to you.

The silence is even more deafening now, even though it is punctuated by murmurs.

"Well, it seems we have a volunteer!" Effie says, still horrendously enthusiastic. She holds her hand out to you as you walk slowly towards the platform as if you're in a trance. You ignore her outstretched fingers and go to stand behind the bowl for the boys.

"So it seems we won't be needing to select a male tribute," Effie declares. You think you hear a collective exhale of relief from where you were standing and a low anguished cry that sounds like your mother's. Effie reaches out and pats you delicately between your shoulder blades, and you try your best not to flinch.

There's no regret, no remorse, no thought, nothing. A blank.

"What's your name, dear?" Effie asks.

"Bellamy Blake," you say softly, surveying the crowd.

"I bet my buttons that was your sister. Don’t want her to steal all the glory, do we? Come on, everybody! Let’s give a big round of applause to our newest tribute!"

No one claps. They all fixate their gazes on you, with pity, with misunderstanding, with terror.

Echo stares stoically at you, not a tear or a frown in sight. Blank, undetectable emotion.

Effie bares her teeth in syrupy and fake sympathy before turning back to the girls' bowl. She doesn't waste time with theatrical effect and just pulls a slip of paper out.

"Clarke Griffin," she calls, and suddenly, you remember something.

* * *

_You walked slowly by the bakery, clenching your fists at the smell. You hadn't eaten in almost a week, having given all your food to Mom and Octavia._

_Eleven. You're eleven years old and you just had to wait one more year until you could be allowed to enter your name in the Reaping more so you could get food for your family._

_You couldn't feel your legs anymore, collapsing onto a tree and letting the freezing rain soak into your hair and your jacket._

_Sighing, you raised your head to the bakery window, and you think you say a pale face framed by golden hair staring back at you. But it disappeared a minute later._

_And then you heard the screaming._

_Abby Griffin, the town healer and the owner of the bakery, was screaming at her daughter about burnt bread, worthless, never going to accomplish anything, you foolish child, can't save a life, can't even bake some bread—_

_A door slammed, and you closed your eyes._

_But then you heard footsteps, feet colliding with the wet flagstones. Your eyes opened just a fraction and you caught a glimpse of that golden hair again, and then fingers touching yours, pushing a loaf of half burnt bread into your hands. You had glanced around the street to see if anyone was watching, which, no one was. Except Clarke Griffin, with her bright blue eyes, staring right into your own as if she could see down into the depths of your soul._

_You managed a tiny nod, and then you left without a word._

_Later, Mom and Octavia were in much better spirits, Octavia's smile a little brighter, the worry lines around Mom's eyes just a little shallower._

_And for the first time, you found your thoughts wandering to Clarke Griffin._

* * *

"...Will represent District 12. Please shake hands with each other if you agree to these terms," Mayor Jaha had been saying, reciting the Treaty of Treason. You finally tear your eyes away from Clarke, who is determinedly glaring at the floor. And then she holds up a hand, fair and unblemished and free of callouses as far as you can tell. You feel a wave of resent and hatred for her, for the perfect fucking  _princess_ of District 12, who has never really had to be as worried about anything as you have. But you extend your own hand anyway, grasping it maybe a little too tightly. 

Her eyelashes are impossibly long and her cheeks are rosy, giving her a deceptively sweet look. Sweet, like the cakes in the bakery run by her parents. Her blue eyes lock onto yours as you two shake hands, and you wonder how you're going to kill her.

And then your fingers part, and there are Peacekeepers tugging you away as the anthem of Arkadia blares into the afternoon.

* * *

You're shoved into a small room in the Justice Building, waiting and twisting your fingers together. You examine the room and decide to sit down, feeling like your legs won't support you much longer. After a few moments, Mom and Octavia walk in, and Octavia climbs into your lap and hugs you tight, and after a moment you can feel your mother joining the embrace. It's the first time she's hugged you since Dad died.

"O, listen to me," you say softly, pulling away and looking into her startlingly green eyes. "Don't you dare enter your name for food, okay? You'll get by selling cheese and milk from the goat, alright? Echo will teach you how to gather and bring you food."

She nods, her lips trembling.

"You're gonna keep going to school, okay?" you say. "Promise."

"I promise," she breathes, and then you turn to Mom.

"You can't disappear again," you say, and an expression like guilt crosses her face like a shadow. "Not like when Dad died. Listen to me. I'm not going to be there to keep you both alive anymore, alright? You can't leave Octavia alone. No matter what you see on that screen, you're going to fight through it. And no more  _favors_ for the Peacekeepers, understood?"

You glance at Octavia. "My sister, my responsibility. But she's your responsibility, too."

Mom yanks her arm away. "I was ill, Bellamy. If I'd had the medicine that I have now—"

"So take the damn medicine," you say, your voice dangerously low. "And take care of her."

"You're fast," Octavia says suddenly. "You have to try and win. You have to come home."

Your heart plummets. "I'll try."

Octavia looks exceedingly solemn for a twelve-year-old at that moment. "Swear it."

You take her hands between your own and look her into the eyes. "I swear."

"Time's up," a Peacekeeper says roughly, wrenching the door open. Octavia begins to cry, and she throws herself at you one last time before pulling away and pressing something into your hand. You don't have to look to know what it is.

"For good luck," Octavia says trembling, and then they leave.

You don't even realize you're crying until the door closes.

* * *

The door opens again, and Echo stands on the other side before you two embrace in silence.

"Listen," she says. "Getting a knife should be pretty easy, but you gotta get your hands on a bow. That’s your best chance."

"They don't always have bows," you remind her, pulling back.

"Then make one," Echo insists. "Even a weak bow is better than no bow at all."

"Echo, I don't even know if there will be wood."

"There's always some wood," Echo says.

"Usually," you agree.

"Bellamy, it's just hunting," she states. "And you're the best hunter I know."

"It’s not just hunting. They’re armed and can think for themselves. Easily!" you snap.

"So do you. And you’ve had more practice. Real practice. You know how to kill," she assures you.

"Not  _people,"_ you hiss.

"How different is it?" Echo asks, and you feel a strong desire to throw up.

The door bursts open again and then they're dragging Echo away.

"Don't let them starve!" you choke out, panicked.

"I won't!" Echo calls back before she disappears from view.

* * *

Reporters swarm you two like a horde of angry bees. You keep a straight face, but you see that Clarke's eyes are bright red and puffy, and she looks downright miserable. 

 _Poor Princess,_ you think derisively.

Maybe killing her won't be so hard after all.

* * *

Polished wood and shining glass as far as the eye can see on this godforsaken train. Your room is immaculate, like a museum exhibit instead of a bedroom.

You pull the pin from the pocket of your jacket and stare at it as you sink down onto the bed, running your fingers over the delicately carved wings.

The Mockingjay.

* * *

"It seems your mentor has no regard for maintaining an image," Effie says disdainfully at dinner, with more food than Bellamy's seen in an entire lifetime. And, strangely, more than Clarke has ever seemed to have seen. "He was  _supposed_ to be at this lovely event."

Clarke snorts derisively.

"Who's our mentor?" you ask, poking at your food with a shining fork.

"Haymitch Abernathy," Effie says, like the words are foul in her mouth.

"Haymitch is a drunk," Clarke pipes up, her expression steely. Against your will, you feel your respect for her rise a little. "He's drunk every year."

"More like every day," you add under your breath, and you and Clarke laugh in unison for a moment, surprising you both.

"Yes. How odd you two find it amusing," Effie hisses. "You know your mentor is your lifeline to the world in these Games. The one who advises you, lines up your sponsors, and dictates the presentation of any gifts. Haymitch can well be the difference between your life and your death!"

Well, you guys definitely aren't laughing anymore.

* * *

You find Haymitch Abernathy, Clarke, and Effie sitting together at the table and eating the next morning when you arrive late for breakfast. Haymitch looks severely hungover and supremely irritated with the whole ordeal, and you can definitely relate.

"So," you say, drawing all the attention to yourself, a choice you immediately regret. "You're supposed to stay alive."

"Here's some advice," Haymitch says, crossing his arms. "Stay alive."

"Hilarious," Clarke mutters, a glass of water pressed to her lips. 

"Pass the jam," Haymitch commands, barely looking up at you. You look at Clarke, who shrugs.

"I'm gonna need something better than that," you say.

"Whatever, I'll talk later. Pass the jam."

You don't move from your seat.

Haymitch reaches across the table and in a split second you've snatched the table knife and stab it into the space in between his fingers, deterring his movements.

"That is _mahogany!"_ Effie yowls.

"Well, look at you," Haymitch says dryly. "Just killed a placemat!" he quips, yanking the knife out of the wood.

You scowl.

* * *

It's all a nightmare coated in feathers and makeup and powder and power. The Capitol is big and clean, silver towers shooting towards the clouds.

Clarke doesn't crack a single smile, not even at the clowns screaming her name when they get off the train.

But it's obvious that they like her, and that's something you don't have going for you.

* * *

You've got a stylist named Cinna, with dark skin and dark eyes. He doesn't cover his face in paint like the rest of the fools here, only a hint of gold eyeliner framing his eyes.

"You're new, aren't you?" you ask, fiddling with the gold pin. They took all of your clothes, god, you're gonna miss that blue shirt, and gave you soft cotton pants and a softer, thinner jacket, with nothing underneath. You're sitting on a cold metal table with the jacket unzipped over your bare chest, wishing you could zip it up but not sure if you're allowed to. You've managed to switch the pin from hand to hand without anyone noticing, and you've managed to keep it. "I haven't seen you on the screen before."

"Yes, I'm new," Cinna says softly. "My first year in the Games."

"And you got assigned to District Twelve?" you ask in disbelief. 

"No, I asked to be assigned to it," Cinna says. "Why don't you zip up the jacket and we have a talk."

You gratefully oblige.

* * *

The point is to be dressed to reflect your district during the opening ceremony, Cinna tells you. And you assume you're just gonna be a coal miner like every other year.

Cinna doesn't deny it, but smiles as if he's sharing a private joke with himself. "You're not afraid of fire, are you, Bellamy?" he asks.

* * *

Both you and Clarke are dressed in thick, black gear, looking like it was designed for combat. Clarke's costume hugs her like a second skin, accentuating every single curve and angle of your body. You force yourself to look away from her.

* * *

Naturally, Cinna sets you two on fire. Cheers from the crowd, and people eyeing both of you with interest. Clarke grabs your hand while your chariot races down the avenue, and you don't pull away.

You still hate her.

* * *

Training? Easy. Haymitch has told you not to exhibit your skills, but then you see the Careers, the tributes from 1 and 2 eyeing you and Clarke like meat, and you feel a swell of anger.

You go over to the bow area and pick up a sleek, silver one, loving how it fits perfectly in your hands.

"Bellamy," you hear Clarke hiss warningly in your ear. "Haymitch said—"

"Haymitch isn't here," you snipe back at her. "Go on, go to the knife station. I know you want to, I've seen you looking at it."

Clarke glares at you, but she goes and chops the dummies and cardboard figures into ribbons.

You realize that, you not only helped her, but you've seen now that she could kill you easily.

You don't like it one bit.

* * *

It's time for the individual training assessment, and you're the last one to walk into the room.

Those fucking Gamemakers don't even look at you, Seneca Crane and his dumb fucking beard curling up as he looks at a roast pig bigger than Octavia.

"Bellamy Blake, reporting for assessment," you drone.

They don't answer.

You count to a hundred and twenty, before you grab a bow and notch an arrow.

_Sure. I'll show them an assessment._

You aim for the apple poised in the pig's mouth. Inhale, exhale.

You imagine Echo smiling next to you, and you let go of the arrow.

The apple ends up pinned to the wall by your arrow, and they all look at you with scandalized expressions.

You sink low into a mocking bow, saying, "Thank you." You set the bow down. "For your consideration."

* * *

 The interviews.

The crowd erupts into cheers at the sight of you in your fitted black blazer, and you try not to squirm in your seat when you face Caesar Flickerman.

"Well, there he is!" Caesar screams into the mic, gesturing at you. "Everyone, please welcome Bellamy Blake of District Twelve one more time!"

You look at the audience and flash them your classic smirk, which makes them all scream louder.

"So, Bellamy, it’s nice to finally meet you. The Capitol must be quite a change from District Twelve. What has impressed you the most since you came here?" Caesar asks you.

You think for a second. "The lamb stew."

Laughter ripples through the masses.

"The one with the dried plums? Oh, I eat it by the bucketful. It doesn’t show, does it? Now, Bellamy, when you came out in the opening ceremonies, my heart actually stopped. What did you think of that costume?"

"Well, I was afraid I'd burn to death," you admit meekly. "But Cinna, he's... he's brilliant." You swallow, then remember what he'd told you before the interview. "In fact, Cinna's got a surprise even now."

"Well, let's see it!"

You glance at where Cinna's sitting in the audience, and then your blazer erupts in a blaze of orange and gold.

Screaming.

"So, Bellamy," Caesar says. "Why did you volunteer?"

"To save my sister, my favorite person in the world," you say simply, and there are a few more questions on that, but it's all pretty simple to you.

* * *

Clarke gets along easy with Caesar, as far as you can tell from watching her interview on the screen.

"It’s nice to see you, Clarke. You seem like a lovely young woman. What’s your hometown like?" Caesar asks.

"I work in my family bakery and I'm training to be the head healer. I’m obviously from District Twelve. There’s nothing much except for that," she says, crossing her arms. She's wearing a beautiful black dress that falls all the way to the floor, with gold highlights shimmering throughout the dark fabric.

"Oh, come on. There must be a boy, _or a_ girl back home. Right?"

Clarke bites her lip and hesitantly shakes her head. You don't know her well, and even though you can tell she's a pretty good actress, you can tell she's up to something.

"You must be kidding," Caesar pushes.

"Well," Clarke sighs, sitting up. "There is a boy. I’ve had a crush on him ever since I can remember. I’m pretty sure he didn’t know I existed until the Reaping."

You narrow your eyes, unsure of how to process this information.

"Does he have a girl?" Caesar asks.

"Well, I don't know. But plenty of girls like him."

"Alright, here's what you do," Caesar says. "You win, you go home. He can’t turn you down then, eh?"

Clarke visibly swallows, her throat bobbing. An act, an act, an act, but a damn good one. "I don’t think that’s gonna work. Winning won’t help in my case," she says.

"Well, why not?"

She pauses, then looks directly into the camera, as if she's looking at you. "Because he came here with me."

Awkward silence washes over everyone. Haymitch glances at you, and you clench your jaw.

"Oh. That’s is a big piece of bad luck."

"It’s not good."

"I don’t think any of us can blame you. It’d be hard not to fall for that young man. He didn’t know?"

You can feel rage start to set in. Clarke, avoiding you, avoiding everyone, and here this comes.

"Not until now," she says softly.

* * *

You grab her bare shoulders, shoving her into the wall. "What the  _hell_ was that?" 

Haymitch grabs you and yanks you off of Clarke, and she's glaring at you like she wants to set you on fire.

_Go on. Try it._

"This was your idea, wasn't it?" you ask, rounding on Haymitch. "Turning me into some kind of fool in front of the entire country?"

"It was my idea," Clarke snarls, with much more vehemence than she'd use on someone she'd supposedly be attracted to. "Haymitch helped."

"Oh, yeah, Haymitch is so helpful to  _you."_

"You are a fool. Do you think she hurt you? That girl just gave you something you could never achieve on your own," Haymitch snaps.

"She made me look  _weak!"_

"She made you look  _desirable,"_ Haymitch hisses. "And let’s face it, you can use all the help you can get in that department. You were about as romantic as dirt until she said she wanted you. Now they all do. You’re all they’re talking about. The star crossed lovers from District Twelve. Can’t you see it? Can’t you see anything, Bellamy?"

You glare at Clarke.

"Sponsors," Clarke spits. "You're gonna fucking get sponsors now, you ass."

She helped you, but it's not like you're happy.

* * *

Big black jacket, and holy shit, they gave you your blue shirt back. Cargo pants, and you're done.

Cinna, having taken your pin earlier, holds it up and pins it to your jacket.

"Know what they're calling you?" Cinna asks.

"Boy on Fire," you say, rolling your eyes. Cinna smiles and pats your shoulder. 

 _"Prepare for launch,"_ a voice says over the PA system in the small room, and Cinna directs you to the glass vestibule.

"I'm betting on you, Boy on Fire," Cinna says, his voice slightly muffled through the glass.

You wish you could smile.

* * *

Fuck.

Fucking Clarke, the fucking Cornucopia. There's quite a lot in your backpack, plus the knife Clove had buried in your backpack.

There was blood everywhere.

Twelve cannons had gone off after the Cornucopia incidents. Twelve people dead.

You wonder if Clarke is among the dead. You'd seen her sprint off into the trees, not bothering to grab anything.

The night is falling, and you climb a tree and tie yourself to the branch. You won't fall, and they probably won't see you.

You might just be okay.

* * *

You're almost asleep when you smell it. A fire.

You roll your eyes at whoever was stupid enough to do it, sending a signal up into the air with the smoke.  _Yeah, that'll give you away._

You shiver.

* * *

The screaming comes just a few minutes later.

And then the overjoyed laughs of Tributes, murderers.

They walk past your tree but thankfully they don't see you, allowing you to assess them comfortably. Anya and Ilian from Two, Gustus and Lexa from One, and...

Clarke.

Walking next to Lexa.

"You sure he went this way?" Lexa asks Clarke, her dark braids swinging.

"Yeah, that was his snare we saw back there," Clarke says, and you knit your brows in confusion. You hadn't set any snares, but you don't have time to ponder this.

Clarke's working with them. To kill you.

Your fingers clench, and it takes a long time for you to fall asleep.

* * *

You wake to fire.

The whole forest area around you burns, and shit, shit shit, shit, shit, SHIT!

You quickly untie yourself and scramble down the tree before it can collapse, and you sprint through the burning foliage, weaving in and out of the inferno.

And that's when the fireballs are flying at you.

And one grazes your knee, eliciting a searing pain.

_Fucking Gamemakers._

_Come on, Bellamy, you were scouting around her for a while yesterday._

The small pond.

You swallow, and run in what you hope is the right direction.

* * *

You make it to the pond, but then you hear voices. The Careers.

"Hey, there he is!" Anya screams, and  _fuck,_ you have to fucking run  _again._

You're tired of this bullshit.

* * *

Haymitch sends you a burn cream.

_**STAY ALIVE.** _

_**-H** _

* * *

It's a genius idea.

Charlotte, the small twelve-year-old from Eleven, hiding in the trees and pointing at the tracker jacker wasp hive.

_Genius._

Right up until you get stung while trying to cut the branch so it'll fall on the Tributes sleeping below the branches of the tree you're in, waiting for you to come down so they can kill you.

No. Still genius.

* * *

You have to pry the bow from Anya's brittle hands, and you think you break her fingers. Everything is blurring together in your head, but the bow, the bow is your goal.

You jog, no, stumble through the forest, not considering that someone could kill you right now.

And then everything goes blank.

* * *

_You couldn't help them._

_Octavia and Mom, gone. Dead?_

_You don't know._

_Smoke everywhere._

_Are you dead?_

_People kick you and punch you and beat you._

_Blood, smoke, fire._

_Octavia and Mom, gone._

_Is your heart still beating?_

_"Kill me," you whisper._

_You failed._

* * *

"Bellamy, what are you doing? Get out of here! Go!"

Golden hair, blue eyes. Hands on your shoulders, shaking you.

"Go," she says again, and so you do, running for a while before you pass out.

* * *

Charlotte, sweet Charlotte.

She saves you.

* * *

You two make a plan to blow up the supplies the Careers have gathered in a clearing near the middle of the arena.

"You set fires in various places in the forest," you tell her. "Then you better move on as fast as you can, because these piles of leaves start to smoke fast."

"We need a signal then," Charlotte says.

"Okay, like what?"

Charlotte thinks for a second, then whistles a four-note tune. The birds in the trees echo the tune.

"Jabberjays," you say. "That's genius."

"That means we're okay," Charlotte says smiling, but then her smile evaporates.

"Hey," you say softly. "What is it?"

"I'm scared," she whispers.

"I know," you say softly. "But hey—fear is a demon. Screw fear, Charlotte. Slay your demons."

She nods, and you pull her into a hug. The way she holds onto you so tightly reminds you of Octavia, and it makes your heart ache.

"Hey," you assure her. "I'll see you for dinner, okay?"

* * *

And then Charlotte dies, because you were too late. A spear to her heart.

And you raise your bow, shooting Ilian without a second of hesitation.

It'll haunt you, and Charlotte will, too.

"You have to win," Charlotte says, lying in your arms, her breathing shallow and irregular, blood pooling on her shirt.

"I will, Charlotte," you whisper. "For you."

* * *

"Can you sing to me?" she whispers.

"Yeah," you say, your vision blurring with tears. But you start.

_"Deep in the meadow_

_Under the willow_

_A bed of grass, a soft green pillow_

_Lay down your head, and close your eyes_

_And when they open, the sun will rise..."_

The light has gone out of her eyes by the time you're done singing, and you gently close them for her.

* * *

You scream and rage and grab your hair, not caring about who could hear.

Too young. She was too fucking young.

When your enraged tears try, you stand and you gather as many flowers as you can find.

Charlotte's jacket is zipped up over the deep red stain, and then you finally stand, walk around a bit before you find the small, perfect circles embedded in the trees that show the presence of a camera.

And then you touch three fingers to your lips, and raise them up high, facing the camera.

A farewell.

* * *

_Two Victors can be crowned if they're from the same district._

* * *

You can go home.

* * *

You haven't seen Clarke's face in the sky yet, and that means she's still alive.

You can go home.

* * *

Her leg is severely injured in the cave you find her in.

Her name falls from your lips, and then everything makes sense again.

Clarke.

* * *

"I don't have any medical supplies to treat it," Clarke gasps, looking at the bloody gash in the rip in her pants above her knees. "Deep cut, but I don't think it, ah..."

She trails off, her eyes closing in pain. "Don't think it hit any major arteries."

"Staying alive, right?" you say softly.

"Staying alive," she whispers back, and your hatred for her rapidly evaporates entirely into respect, for this woman who lived against all odds.

Because the odds were never in anyone's favor.

* * *

They announce that they're going to be hosting a feast, and you know they'll have medicine for Clarke.

"No, no way," Clarke says, as soon as the announcement ends. "You're not going."

"Yeah, well, you can't walk around in this state," you shoot back.

"So leave me to die," she says simply, as if it's that easy.

"No," you snap, incensed by the idea.

"Bellamy?" she asks, her voice soft. "Why?"

You think, and you remember that you have something to maintain.

And maybe a way to help Clarke.

So you lean forward and capture her lips with your own.

Her hands come up to rest on the back of your neck, fingers curling into your neck. The kiss is soft, just a brush of lips against lips.

"Now I definitely can't let you go," she says, sad and insistent.

You purse your lips before saying softly, "Okay."

Clarke bites her lip. "Come here," she commands quietly.

You crawl over to her and wrap your arms around her waist, burying your face in her neck.

_It's not real._

_It's not real._

* * *

You go as soon as you fall asleep, and get a cut to the forehead for your trouble.

"Sorry you couldn't save your friend," Lexa snarls, hovering over him, her knife at the ready, ready to gut him like a fish. "Charlotte, was that her name? Yeah? Well, we killed her. We  _killed-"_

And then she's being dragged away by Atom, the other tribute from Eleven. "What'd you say?" Atom screams at Lexa, slamming her against the wall of the Cornucopia. "You killed her!"

"No, no-" Lexa chokes. "No! GUSTUS!"

"I heard you!" Atom roars, ignoring her screams of Gustus's name. 

And then Atom slams her against the wall again, and you hear a sickening crack.

Her skull.

Lexa falls to the ground, eyes wide open and unblinking.

A cannon booms.

"Just this time, Twelve," Atom says, turning to face you. "For Charlotte."

And then Atom leaves, leaving you alive.

* * *

The medicine makes your cuts disappear. Clarke's upset that you went without her, but you're both almost as good as new.

* * *

"I'm gonna look for some food," Clarke announces. "Give me the bow."

You look at her in disbelief, and even more surprisingly, her mouth widens into a genuine, mischievous grin before she gives your shoulder a light shove.  _"I'm just kidding."_

You find yourself smiling back, and you hand her your knife.

"Thanks," she says, gripping the hilt firmly before walking away.

Still walking around with a stupid grin on your face, you almost don't notice the cannon go off.

"Clarke?" you ask, straightening.  _"CLARKE?"_

You run through the trees, your heart pounding.

And then you collide into a small body, gold hair, blue eyes, check, check.

Glancing past her, you see Foxface, the tribute from Five, lying face up, her eyes wide open.

And then you notice Clarke's black-stained hands, and the berries within.

"That's nightblood, Clarke!" you screech, prying a berry from her grasp. "They're poisonous, you'd be dead in a minute!"

"I know," she says softly. "She didn't."

Clarke tilts her head towards Foxface, and then you see the telltale black stain around her mouth.

"Damn you," you whisper, wrapping your arms around her waist and burying your face in her hair, relief so profound sweeping over you that at some point, Clarke is holding all of your weight.

"It's okay," she breathes into your neck. "I'm here."

And then when she pulls away, you take the rest of the berries and tuck it into your pocket.

"What are you doing?" Clarke asks.

"Maybe Gustus likes berries," you say, but you can't bear to say Atom's name, not after he saved you.

* * *

The mutts are the stuff of your nightmares.

Nightmares, a luxury if you ever make it out alive.

And you guys are running. Clarke scrambles up the Cornucopia, and she holds a hand out to you.

"You're going to be okay," she says to you, pressing two fingers to the scar on your forehead that you got from getting her medicine. "I swear you'll be okay."

One cannon. 

You do the math quickly, counting all the cannons you'd heard in the past few days.

It's a total of twenty-two cannons including the one you just heard, and that means you, Clarke, and whoever else is alive are the last Tributes standing in the arena.

The mutts, barking and screaming. Cuts and scrapes and bruises marking Clarke's pale skin, her hair looking silver in the artificial moonlight.

And then she's brutally yanked away, and the next thing you know, Gustus has an arm around Clarke's neck, and she can't breathe, as far as you can see.

Every exposed inch of his skin is bloody, and you raise your bow.

You don't shoot, though. They're moving so much that you could miss and hit Clarke.

"Go on," Gustus chokes out. "Do it. Kill us. And then you'd win, right?"

You remember from training that Clarke's also exceedingly strong, but not strong enough to throw up Gustus. Surprisingly gifted in hand-to-hand combat, but too weak at the moment to defend herself.

Dying, a few feet away from you.

"I could still do this," Gustus says suddenly, tightening his grip and making Clarke release a choked whimper.  _"I could still do this."_

You glance at her, and then you look at the hand that is on top of Gustus's hand, which was moving in a futile attempt to throw him off.

Her index finger taps the back of his hand, and you realize.

 _Shoot,_ she mouths, and you notice a purple tinge in her face in the dim light.  _Shoot, shoot, shoot, Bellamy, shoot!_

You move the arrow and you release it with a gasp.

* * *

Gustus releases Clarke immediately and stumbles, falling off the of the Cornucopia and tumbling into the pack of mutts below.

Screaming. 

Clarke, still massaging her throat, closes her eyes.

"Please!" you hear Gustus say.  _"Please."_

You draw an arrow and point it at Gustus, disappearing under the mass of the creatures. You realize, horribly, that you see his leg lying a foot away from him, torn off, a bit of bone peeking out of the red flesh.

You release, and the screams stop.

The final cannon.

The sun rises and you hear a sniffle.

You turn to see Clarke crying, her hands pressed to her eyes.

"Clarke," you say softly.

"We won," she says between tears. "We won."

* * *

You jump down from the Cornucopia followed by Clarke, and you wrap an arm around her shoulders, tears of your own rising to the surface.

And then an announcer's voice rings out from the hidden PA system.

_"Attention, attention. The previous rule alteration, regarding the allowance of two Victors, has been... revoked. Only one may be crowned. Good luck! And may the odds be ever in your favor."_

Clarke pulls away from you, and then she gestures towards your bow. "It's okay, Bellamy. Shoot me."

She pulls out her knife and sets it at the ground in front of her feet.

"Clarke, no," you say.

"It should be you," she says, smiling grimly. "They have to have their Victor."

"No," you say, dropping your bow and shrugging off your quiver. And then you walk to her, stopping only when your faces are a few inches apart. "They don't."

And then you pull the nightblood berries out of berries, and Clarke gasps, grabbing your hand. "Bellamy, you can't—!"

"Shh," you say, touching her face gently with your free hand, and then you pour a few of the berries into her own hand.

Her shoulders sink in a silent sigh as she realizes, and then she looks into your eyes.

"Together?" you ask.

"Together."

"On three," you say quietly.

She bites her trembling lip and nods. 

"One," you breathe.

"Two," she says.

You reach out and touch the golden braid over her shoulder, feeling the soft hair there.

"Three."

Your hands rise at the same time, and you stare at Clarke as she stares at the berries, ready to pour them into her mouth—

_"Stop! Stop!"_

Seneca Crane, the head Gamemaker, screaming like a scared little boy over the PA system. Both you and Clarke pause.

 _"Ladies and gentlemen,"_ he says shakily.  _"May I present... the Victors of the 74th Annual Hunger Games!"_

* * *

"They're not happy with you," Haymitch says to you a night later, glaring at you as you lean over the balcony of the penthouse you're in.

"What, because I didn't play by there rules?" you ask with a smirk. "I'm not happy with them either for—"

"Damn it, Bellamy, I'm being serious," Haymitch implores, putting a hand on your shoulder. "Not just for you. They don't take these things lightly."

* * *

"When they ask you, you say you couldn't help yourself," Haymitch says to you, fixing your bowtie as he coaches you on the upcoming interview with Caesar Flickerman. "You were, you were so  _in love_ with this girl that the  _thought_ of not being with her was  _unthinkable._ You'd—you'd rather  _die_ than not be with her, understand?"

You nod quietly.

* * *

"How did you feel?" Caesar asks. "When you found her in that cave?"

You glance at Clarke and say, "I felt like the happiest person in the world."

A small smile blooms on Clarke's face.

"I couldn't imagine life without her," you continue, and Clarke reaches out and takes your hand, making a chorus of  _aww_ erupt from the crowd.

"And what about you, Clarke?" Caesar asks.

"I mean, he saved my life," Clarke replies softly, stroking the back of your hand, and it comforts you immediately despite everything that's going on. 

"We saved each other," you say, the statement just a bit truer than you intend it to be.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Caesar declares. "The star-crossed lovers from District Twelve, this year's Victors, of the 74th Annual  _Hunger Games!"_

* * *

When your train nears Twelve, Clarke comes to stand next to you by the window.

"So what happens when we get back?" she asks quietly.

"I don't know," you say, staring at the green rushing by. "I guess we try to forget."

"I don't want to forget," Clarke says.

* * *

**Part Two**

* * *

Winter has fallen over the district, and you're out in the woods, hunting for food.

Even though you have more than you need, having moved into Victor's Village.

But you still hunt—more out of a desire to desperately hold onto a piece of your unblemished past than necessity.

You find a turkey, and you shoot it easily, except, as soon as you release the arrow, you see Ilian tumbling to the ground, your arrow in his heart.

And you shake, until Echo puts a hand on your shoulder and tells you, it's okay, it's okay, you're safe.

* * *

You two start to argue on the way back.

About your stupid fucking Victory tour, how you have to visit each district and rub into their faces that you won.

And they did not.

And you scream and you scream and at some point, Echo shoves you into an alley and kisses you.

You're both breathless by the end of it.

"I had to do that," Echo breathes, before she walks away.

* * *

President Snow is at your house.

Rebellion in the districts, and you at the center of it all.

Their symbol, their Mockingjay.

_A problem, a problem that began as soon as you pulled out those berries, Mr. Blake._

The pin feels heavy in your pocket.

"How is your friend? Echo, was it?" Snow asks suddenly.

You try not to clench your fingers. "She's fine."

"If need be," Snow says, leaning back in the chair of your study. "It can and will be arranged for unfortunate ends to befall Octavia. Aurora. Echo—"

You swallow. 

"—and Clarke."

Crossing your arms, you rise up to your full height. "What do you want me to do?" you ask, sounding braver than you feel.

"The stunt you pulled in the arena... with the berries, has caused some problems," Snow says delicately. "You made not only a fool of the Capitol but a fool of me as well. I think you know what happens to those who try to cross me."

_They die._

"Do you really love her?" Snow asks. "Clarke? Ever since she professed her love for you, people in the Capitol swooned over the two of you. And the act of suicide to save both you and your lover... they were convinced it was an act of love... as for me... I was not convinced." He looked at the desk, straightening things out and making them look proper enough for him.

You hold your ground, staring into the eyes of the president.

"You are not only to convince me," Snow says. "But to convince the districts as well."

"Why the districts?" you ask.

"Peace is a fragile thing," Snow says simply. "And as the Capitol saw your stunt as an act of love, the districts saw it as an act of rebellion."

_And it was._

"You have the Victory Tour coming up," he declares. "A good opportunity for you."

He stands and makes his way to the door, but pauses before opening it, and turns to face you.

"And I know about the kiss," he says, leaving you alone in the study with the faint smell of roses.

* * *

The night before the tour, a camera crew arrives to broadcast you and Clarke to the Capitol.

Effie, ever persistent, fusses over you right up until you open the door of your house, pushing stray curls away from your forehead.

Across the street, the door to Clarke's house opens as well, and she strides out, wearing a fake smile and a beige trench coat, her hair loose and flowing in the winter breeze. You're aware of the cameras hovering in front of you, and you smile at her as you two walk to each other.

Then both of you slip on the ice at the same time, and you grab her hips so that she falls on top of you and not the hard pavement.

"Hey," she says softly, her hair falling like a curtain around one side of your faces.

Of course, leaving the side facing the cameras uncovered. Just your luck.

But you've got an act to maintain, haven't you?

_Convince me._

_"Uh, oh, trouble in paradise,"_ Caesar's voice says from the speakers.  _"I hope they're alright—"_

You tilt your head up and kiss her, languid and slow, your tongue running along the seam of her lips and your hands tangling themselves in her hair, making her gasp softly.

 _"Um, ahem, anyone at home?"_ Caesar asks teasingly.

Clarke smiles and gets up, extending a hand to you, which you take. A few questions, sappy and romantic answers, and the cameras shut off, the crew disappearing into the night.

"Nice acting," Clarke says to you when everyone leaves, her smile suddenly gone.

"You, too," you say.

"Almost thought that kiss was real," she says, and then she walks away.

You feel a twinge of regret—you haven't spoken to Clarke much since you returned from the Games, and though you managed to avoid the violence, you know Clarke was right in the middle of it, traveling with the careers, witnessing all of the murder for herself.

Maybe having killed a few people of her own.

You'll never know, but you'll never ask her either.

* * *

The train you'll be in for the Victory Tour is disgustingly luxurious yet again, but there's nothing you can do.

"Now, I want you to enjoy this tour," Effie says to you and Clarke during breakfast. "You've earned it."

"What did you say?" you ask.

Effie regards you with exasperation. "I said, you've earned it."

"By killing people," you spit. Clarke clenches her jaw.

You get up from the table and you leave.

* * *

Sitting at the back end of the train, staring out the curved window, you hear the door slide open and then shut. You turn the Mockingjay pin over in your fingers, still staring out the window. "I'm really not in the mood for a lecture, I'll apologize to Effie later."

When you don't get a response, you turn to see Clarke walking over to you.

"I thought you were Haymitch," you mutter.

"You don't have to apologize to anybody," Clarke says. "Including me."

You lean back in your seat, still looking at her.

"Look, it's not fair of me to hold you to whatever you said in the Games," Clarke says. "You saved us. And you may be an ass half the time, but—I need you. I need you to help me keep this going. But I can't go on acting for the cameras and then just ignoring each other in real life."

Guilt bubbles in your stomach and you look away.

"So if you can stop looking at me like I'm wounded," Clarke continues, "then I can quit acting like it. And then maybe—we have a shot at being friends."

"I've never been very good at friends," you admit, because Octavia and Echo are all you need, really.

"Well, it does help when you know the person," Clarke says, smiling softly. "I hardly know anything about you except that you're stubborn and good with a bow."

"That about sums me up," you say, giving her a smile in return.

"Nah, there's more than that, you just don't wanna tell me."

"It's like I said, I'm—" you start.

"See, Bellamy, the way the whole friend thing works is you have to tell each other the—the  _deep_ stuff," Clarke says.

"The deep stuff," you repeat skeptically.

"Yeah," Clarke says.

"Uh oh, like what?" you ask, fully smiling now.

"Like, um, what's your favorite color?"

"Well, now you've stepped over the line."

That gets a chuckle out of Clarke. "Seriously, though, what is it?"

For a minute you almost consider saying blue, because when she asks the question, you think of her eyes.

But you say green, because you also remember the lush forests of Twelve, leaves shielding you from reality, providing a peaceful escape. "What's yours?" you ask.

"Orange," Clarke says.

"Like Effie's hair?"

"Ha, no. No. Like the sunset. Gold, really."

You smile at her, and she smiles back.

It's a start, and a long way from you hating her.

* * *

She starts sleeping next you after you're done with District 4.

Your stupid words, your true, raw, heart-wrenching words about not being able to save Charlotte got a man killed for making the salute you did after you laid Charlotte to rest.

 _Stick to the cards,_ they tell you.

So you do, droning on and reading whatever Effie has put on your card, simpering, fake words of condolence. But the people have seen what you said in Eleven, about not being able to save Charlotte. That you're sorry, that she was too young, that she didn't deserve this. 

There are riots almost everywhere you go, people screaming at you to put down the cards and tell them what you really think. But still, you finish your speeches, and lean over to give Clarke long kisses while battles rage a few feet away from you, the flutter in your stomach from the feeling of her lips on your own not quite enough to replace your dread.

Four is peaceful, but then a little boy walks up to you with this big grin on his face, telling you that when he grows up, he'll volunteer just like you did.

And that night, you scream yourself awake, having dreamed of that boy, covered in blood, an arrow sticking out of his chest.

The door bursts open, and Clarke rushes in wearing a rumpled sweatshirt and loose shorts.

"I'm sorry, it was just a nightmare," you say, pushing a hand through your sweat-dampened curls.

"It's okay, I get them, too," Clarke says breathlessly, looking like she'd run over here. She nods a little to herself, then turns to walk out of your room.

"Wait," you say, and she turns. "Stay," you say.  _"Please."_

She closes your door and walks slowly over to your bed as if in a trance, and lies down next to you. After a moment of awkwardly lying a few inches away from each other, Clarke tugs you closer to her, and everything comes together. You rest your head on her collarbone, your arms around her waist and your leg over hers. Her hand rests on the small of your back under your shirt, and her cheek is pressed into your hair.

Safe.

You feel her lips press a kiss to the crown of your head.

"Stay," you say again, not just for tonight, but speaking for the nights to come.

"Always," she breathes.

* * *

The Victory Tour ends at the Capitol. Pointless dances, exquisite food. You meet Plutarch Heavensbee, the new head Gamemaker.

Clarke notices your unease.

"What's up?" she asks. Her hair is pulled up into a plethora of braids, and there are actual diamonds set into it. For Capitol fashion, her dress is simple, a gown the same shade of blue as the shirt you'd worn in the games.

_Very subtle, Snow._

Speaking of Snow, you tell her about the visit. You leave out the deal with Snow knowing about you and Echo, though.

To your surprise, Clarke gets mad. She tugs you into a deserted corridor. "What the hell, Bellamy?"

Haymitch appears out of nowhere. "What's going on?"

Clarke tells him about Snow's visit, then turns back to you. "I fucking gave a month of my winnings to Atom's and Charlotte's families. And I didn't have a goddamn problem with that, but why the hell didn't you tell me earlier?"

Her finger pokes you in the chest. "I have a family, too, you know! People that  _I_ have to protect! Do you not give a shit about that!"

"I'm sorry," you say. "I didn't think—"

"You didn't think, just like always," Clarke snarls, turning away and pinching the bridge of her nose. "About anyone except yourself and your own family."

"Clarke," you say, reaching for her shoulder, but she steps away from you, still refusing to look you in the eyes.

"Bellamy, we talked about this," Haymitch says. "I told you Snow wouldn't take this lightly."

"I tried," you implore. "I tried to convince him. I've been doing everything I can. Does it not fucking look like I love her?" you ask, gesturing at Clarke.

"We don't know," Haymitch sighs. "We can't know now. You're gonna have to hope that you did your best, and that your best is gonna be enough."

"And Clarke, you need to calm down. You also have an act to maintain," he reasons.

"Fine," Clarke says, whirling around and grabbing your wrist. "Let's just get it over with."

She drags you out of the corridor, her nails digging into your skin.

"Well, well, trouble in paradise?" some random woman says, observing Clarke's scowl.

"No, it's just—" Clarke starts, and then she suddenly grabs the lapels of your jacket and tugs you forward, smashing her lips against yours. You kiss back immediately, gripping her hips tightly. She parts your lips with her tongue and bites your lower lip just a little less than gently, and you try not to groan.

_Well, that's one way to help with your anger._

Your tongues battle for dominance, and holy fucking shit, this is one hell of a kiss. You feel another flutter low in your gut, and that's when you realize that there are people around.

Clarke pulls away first, but doesn't go far. "Just a desire to be alone," Clarke says, still staring into your eyes. Her pupils have almost completely covered her irises, and you swallow.

"Well," the woman says, looking just slightly uncomfortable. "I suppose I'll let you go, then."

"I suppose you will," Clarke breathes.

When the woman leaves, she steps away from you, crossing her arms. It makes her breasts rise, and fuck, that is not fucking helping one bit.

"You better hope it's enough," she snaps.

"It will be," you say. "Nice job selling it."

As you watch, her eyes seem to darken again. "Thanks."

She turns and starts to walk away, but you call out for her to wait.

You sigh. "I'm sorry."

"I know there's someone else back home," she says quietly.

You look up.

"We won't do this again unless it's necessary," Clarke declares.

"You're not mad at me?" you ask.

"I just shoved my tongue down your throat without any warning," Clarke says with a short laugh. "I think my anger was used up on that."

"That's your technique for relieving anger?" you ask in disbelief.

"Only with you," she says, blushing. "'Cuz, you know, it works with the situation."

You think of making some comment about how you should make her angry more often, but you bite your tongue.

"Let's go back to the train," Clarke says. "We'll be home in a day."

You smile. "Guess we will."

* * *

Despite the moment of kindness Clarke has shown you at the Capitol party, you know she's still mad at you.

Even though she curls up next to you on your bed every night, you can tell that she's angry. Pushes your hair away from your forehead every time you wake from a nightmare, which is at least twice a night, but her eyes are blank and cold.

"There have been riots in Eight," Haymitch says to you and Clarke one afternoon.

"We've done all we can," Clarke says.

You stare at your knees, hands clasped.

"Yeah, well, I don't know if Snow will be too thrilled about this. So, any more ideas on how we can make this better?"

"We can get married," you say quietly, not looking up.

"That's not helping," Haymitch says.

"I'm being serious."

There's a silence, and then you glance at Clarke.

"Sure," Clarke says, getting to her feet. "Let's do it."

She leaves.  

Haymitch glances at you with a look of pity.

* * *

One final interview with Caesar Flickerman, going on and on until you announce that there's something you'd like to do.

"Well, let's see it!" Caesar says excitably.

You gently pull Clarke out of her seat and there's just a hint of genuine confusion before she realizes.

And then you sink down onto one knee, pulling out a small box Haymitch had given you. You open it, revealing a simple silver ring with a shining diamond set into it.

Clarke's eyes fill with tears, and though everyone else would see that as tears of joy, you've come to know her very well in a short amount of time, and you can tell that they're tears of utter sorrow, pity, anger, longing.

You've dug your own grave, and you've dug hers, too.

"Clarke Elizabeth Griffin," you say. "Will you marry me?"

She reaches up to wipe away a few tears and plasters a smile onto her face. "Yeah. Yes. Yes."

You slide the ring onto her slender finger and she pulls you up, allowing you to hug her. You pull back and kiss her softly, more a kiss of an apology than of a promise. Your hands cup her face and wipe away the steady stream of tears before you part lips and hug her again.

"I'm sorry," you murmur into her ear, where the cameras can't see your mouth, feeling her sob silently into your neck. "I'm so sorry."

You were sinking, tied to a boulder so you could never make it back up. And you're dragging Clarke down with you, so she will never, ever forget the nightmare you two have lived, so she will always be tied to you, unable to escape the game that had ruined your lives. Always playing, never to be what either of you wanted to be.

_The Games never ended._

* * *

Echo and Octavia are waiting for you in the train station, and you touch Octavia's shoulder and pull Echo into a hug. "We need to talk," you say into her ear.

* * *

"Run away?" she asks. "With whom? Where? When?"

"Our families," you say. "And Clarke."

Echo's eyes darken. "And what about Clarke's family? We bringing them, too?"

You fall silent, and then you hear the trucks start to pour into the district. You motion for Echo to get down and lay a hand on her back, watching the Peacekeeper trucks roll in.

"What is it with the extra Peacekeepers?" Echo asks, her eyes narrowing.

"I don't know," you say. "But we'd better go back and see."

* * *

It's chaos.

Fires in the market.

You find John Mbege missing an eye, stumbling around.

"John, what happened?" you ask, grabbing his shoulders.

"They've come to kill us," John says dazedly. Out of the corner of your eye, you see a Peacekeeper hit someone in a group of civilians, and Echo rushes over to them, kicking the Peacekeeper in the gut. More start to advance towards her, but Echo has them all on the ground in a matter of minutes, until another Peacekeeper uses a shock baton on her, making her stumble.

 _She'll be okay. She'll have to be,_ you think, as you guide Mbege away from the scene.

* * *

After you've gotten Mbege to Abby Griffin, you head towards the square, walking through the unnaturally quiet roads.

And that's when you hear the screams.

Echo.

You run.

* * *

She's leaning against the post in the middle of the square, the back of her sweater torn open. Bloody lashes across her back, turning the back of her bra a deep shade of red, and a Peacekeeper standing behind her, a whip at the ready.

Rage explodes in your head, and you run towards her.

"Hey, don't!" you roar, stepping in front of her, and suddenly there's a blinding pain below your left eye.

"Bellamy, go," Echo groans.

"I was there, too," you say to the Peacekeeper. His helmet is off, and his grey hair shines in the winter air. He raises his whip to hit you, but a figure steps in front of you.

"Get out of the way, girl," the Peacekeeper says in a gravelly voice.

"Easy," Clarke Griffin commands, surprisingly and terrifyingly intimidating for a stocky person of about five feet and five inches, tops. "You don't want to do this."

"You want to join in, too?" the Peacekeeper asks.

"Go on, then," Clarke says, taking a step forward. "Try it."

"Stop," Haymitch says, walking forward and gently pushing Clarke out of the way. "Do you know who they are? Victors of last year's Games. It's already bad enough that you marked up his face before the big wedding, and you don't wanna go further."

"Then they shouldn't have gotten involved," the Peacekeeper, Thread, by the brass plaque on his breastplate, says.

"I never said they were smart," Haymitch says, and you see Clarke's hand twitch at her sides.

Thread looks around, then steps close to Haymitch. "Next time, it's the firing squad for both of them."

There's a heavy silence before Thread screams,  _"CLEAR THE SQUARE!"_ at the top of his lungs, and you scoop Echo up in your arms.

"Your mother's also a healer, isn't she?" Clarke asks briskly.

"She was," you say.

"Healing again," Echo groans. "Let's go."

You don't ask why Clarke won't take Echo to Abby.

* * *

"She needs morphine," Aurora says when they lay Echo on the kitchen counter. She's groaning and screaming and writhing now, the pain becoming too much to bear for her, and you would do anything in that moment to help Echo.

"And ice," Clarke and Octavia say at the same time, and they smile tightly at each other.

"I'll go get some," you say.

"I'll come with you," Octavia declares. You smile at her, but she doesn't smile back. She's gotten quiet and mature beyond her years for a thirteen-year-old, but she still holds your hand on your way out the door.

"How's your eye?" she asks, dropping a handful of snow into the basket. "It missed your eye, so it doesn't need stitches."

"Hurts a little," you admit, and Octavia picks up another bit of snow and holds it to your eye, numbing the area.

"Thanks," you mumble.

Octavia nods, squeezing your shoulder.

* * *

Echo's asleep on the table, lying on her stomach, her hair fanning out on one side of her head. You sit hunched over by the table—you've been like that for a few hours.

On an impulse, you lean forward and gently kiss her lips.

A second later, her eyes open. "Bell," she breathes.

"Hi," you say softly.

Silence falls again, and both of you are asleep in a few minutes.

* * *

Your head snaps up the next morning, and you turn to see Clarke walking into the kitchen.

"Haymitch sent me to check on you guys," Clarke says. "I'll stay and keep watch for a while. You go rest."

You nod gratefully, affectionately tugging gently on a lock of her hair as you leave.

* * *

You find Octavia in the grass outside, gathering more snow.

"Hey, O," you say gently, crouching next to her.

"Hi," she responds, smiling softly. "How are they?"

"Echo's doing better," you state, sitting down on a bench.

"What about Clarke?" Octavia asks.

"Clarke didn't get hurt, O," you say.

"I'm not talking about yesterday," Octavia huffs. "The marriage, Bell."

"What about it?"

"Is she okay with it and all?"

You pause.

"I know it's an act," Octavia sighs. "I don't know why, but I know it's not genuine. I know you, Bellamy. And now, you two are getting married, and I know you're upset about it. But does anyone ever know how she feels?"

You consider telling her about Snow's visit, but you decide you can afford to keep it from her. No use in worrying her.

"She's fine with it," you lie.

"Bellamy," Octavia says. "Clarke turned eighteen, and you're just about to turn nineteen. Both of you are so... young."

"The world's changing, O," you sigh.

"I know," she murmurs. "I can tell."

You lean forward. "What do you mean?"

"Since the last Games," O says softly. "Something's been different. There's something else here."

"Like what?"

She looks you in the eyes. "Hope."

* * *

Seeing as it's the 75th Hunger Games now, and therefore a Quarter Quell, there's always some different element to the Games. The last Quarter Quell, the 50th Hunger Games and the one Haymitch one, had twice as many tributes.

Haymitch went in with 47 people against him, and he came out alone.

And today, on the television, they'll announce what this year's element will be.

You sit on the couch with Octavia and Mom, and feel an icy cold sliver of fear when you see Snow's face.

 _"As you know, the third Quarter Quell is fast approaching,"_ he says. He talks more about Arkadia and it's glory and all that bullshit, but then he pulls out an envelope, and you start to pay attention.

 _"In this year's Games,"_ Snow says.  _"The Tributes will be Reaped from the existing pool of Victors."_

Your heart stops beating.

There are only three Victors from Twelve—you, Clarke, and Haymitch.

And it means that Clarke will go back.

And since your name's entered almost thirty times and Haymitch's name is in there only once, it is almost inevitable that you will return.

Octavia starts to sob.

_No._

_No._

_No._

You run out of the house.

* * *

You don't go to Clarke, though.

You run into the forest, and you finally collapse against a tree, holding it tight. Stray bits of bark start to bite into the skin of your palms, you're clutching it so tightly.

_Impossible._

Snow had done this.

Snow knew.

And Snow was making him pay.

_The Games were never over._

* * *

You barge into Haymitch's house, where he's sitting back on a couch, a drink in his hand.

"Well," he slurs. "Come to beg me to volunteer for you?"

"I came here to drink," you snap, grabbing the bottle from his hands. You take several long gulps before you start coughing.

Haymitch crosses his arms. "She was here, you know. Begging me to volunteer for you. To keep you  _safe._ "

"No," you say. "You're going to volunteer for her. I don't care, they can have two male Tributes. They've had them in the past."

"You know, you could live a thousand lifetimes and never deserve that girl," Haymitch says, suddenly sober and sitting up.

"You think I don't fucking know that?" you snarl. "That's why she's not going back."

"And if she does? If she volunteers for you, and it's me and her?"

"Then you keep her safe," you say. "One person makes it out of there. It's going to be her. It's going to be her even if I go."

"You'll die for her," Haymitch observes. You ignore him.

"Promise me," you demand.

"Bellamy, she's going either way. Reapings haven't allowed for two male tributes in decades. There is  _nothing_ you can do."

You press your hands into your eyes.  _It's not possible. It's not true._

Snow knew.

And you'd thought Snow had done this to directly hurt you but it was to hurt Clarke and make you watch.

Because somewhere along the way, Clarke Griffin had become your weakness, and still Snow could not believe you were in love. 

Snow saw it exactly the way it is, and the way it is isn't simple at all.

You clench your fists. "Then I have one request."

Haymitch glares at you.

"If they choose me, don't volunteer," you say, sealing your fate, signing your death sentence.

"Bellamy," Haymitch says gently, and leans forward to put a hand on your shoulder. "I'm sorry."

"If you get chosen, you better keep her safe."

"I will."

* * *

You and Echo sit in the field the morning before the next Reaping. Winter is fading, and the first flowers have cropped up in the yellowed field.

"We should've just run away when you said," Echo says, staring straight ahead.

You turn to her and put two fingers under her chin, turning her face towards yours so you can kiss her gently.

And then you stand up and leave.

* * *

It shatters your heart into a million pieces to see Clarke standing alone, staring straight ahead.

Effie is subdued, and you feel her rage bubbling beneath her own surface as she reaches for the women's bowl, with just one solitary piece of paper in it.

"The female Tribute from District Twelve will be... Clarke Griffin," Effie says quietly.

No clapping. Just deathly silence.

Clarke walks up, unsmiling as she takes Effie's hand. But something passes between them, a moment of shared weakness before Effie turns to the men's bowl and withdraws a name.

"And the male Tribute will be... Haymitch Abernathy."

"I volunteer," you say immediately, an impulse, a choice you cannot take back.

"Don't—" Clarke snaps, walking forward, but Haymitch holds her back. 

"There's nothing you can do, sweetheart," Haymitch says to her, meaning the nickname seriously rather than in the mocking way he usually uses it.

You shake hands with her, staring down at the wedding ring gleaming on your fingers.

"Then the male tribute will be Bellamy Blake," Effie says softly, closing her eyes.

And then, Echo presses three fingers to her lips and raises them high in the air. Your heart stops, because this is why they killed that man in Eleven, because he did that, no, no, no—

But everyone starts to do it, until the air is full of hands making the salute.

Thread appears out of nowhere and grabs you and Clarke by your collars, and Clarke starts to scream. "No! We get to say goodbye, we get to—"

"Straight to the train," Thread snaps.

And then you scream, your protests echoing with hers.

"Goodbye!" you scream towards Octavia and Mom and Echo, before the doors swing shut and you're dragged into the Justice Building.

* * *

The interviews held the night before the Games are as extravagant as ever.

You walk out and you see Clarke in a long, white dress, with diamonds on the fabric and in her hair, black eyeliner making her eyes a thousand times bluer.

"Clarke," you breathe, tears springing to your eyes.

"Snow wanted me to wear it," she says, looking down. "It's—"

"The wedding dress," you finish. "I know."

She doesn't cry. 

You hug her tightly. "This is my fault," you whisper.

"It's not," Clarke says. "It's not your fault, Bellamy."

* * *

The interviews start, and almost all of them are crying.

"My god, do believe actually believe this bullshit?" Clarke asks.

"People will say anything to stop the Games," Haymitch says, then eyes you guys. "I suggest you do the same."

* * *

The male Tribute from Seven is a refreshing change.

"Now, John, I see that whereas everyone is emotional, you are  _angry,"_ Caesar says.

"Well, of course I'm angry," John Murphy says, crossing his arms. "You see the deal was that if I win, I get to live my life in peace. But now, you guys want to kill me again. Yeah? Well,  _FUCK THAT! AND FUCK ANYONE THAT HAD ANYTHING TO DO WITH IT!"_

His vulgar words are censored, but it's pretty clear what he's saying. Both you and Clarke smile softly.

And then you go.

"The Boy on Fire, or should I say man!" Caesar says. "Absolutely dashing, Bellamy!"

"Thanks," you say.

"Now, I understand that it must be a very emotional night for you," Caesar says, suddenly serious. A tense silence falls. "What with the wedding being canceled and all."

You swallow and nod, closing your eyes. "Yeah."

"Now, correct me if I'm wrong, I did see that your outfit seemed to match Clarke's and... is this not what you wouldn't worn to the wedding?"

You glance down at your white suit then at Cinna in the crowd, who nods.

"Yes," you say. "It is."

There are murmurs of sympathy. Cinna gives you a subtle signal to stand up.

"But of course, there's a surprise with this one, too," you say, standing up, and Caesar smiles again. 

"Well, let's see it!" he says.

You stand tall, and then your clothes ignite, but that's not it. The flames race up your body, turning the white fabric into a dark blue. And then you feel something heavy come out of the back of your jacket.

"Oh, my," Caesar breathes. "It's like wings, it's like—"

"A Mockingjay," you say.

The interview concludes, and then you go backstage.

And then it's Clarke's turn.

"See you," she says to me, then walks onto the stage.

"Goodness, Clarke!" Caesar says. "Looking magnificent as always!"

"Thank you, Caesar, same to you," she replies with a subdued smile as she takes her seat.

"A wedding dress?" John Murphy asks in disbelief, sidling up to you.

"Snow wanted her to wear it," you mutter.

Murphy smiles then. "Make him pay for it."

You shoot him a grin back.

"Now, Clarke," Caesar says, as you're ushered onto stage with all the other tributes. "I am so, so terribly sorry about the wedding."

"I'm not," Clarke says. You frown at the back of her head from where you stand on the stage.

"Why not?" Caesar asks, clearly intrigued.

"Because... well..." Clarke murmurs, and you can see her biting her lip the way she usually does on one of the big screens in the auditorium. "We already got married. In secret."

Gasps from the crowd.

"A secret wedding? Do tell."

"We wanted our love to be eternal," Clarke says, smiling sheepishly. "We just couldn't wait. And I wouldn't have had any regrets if..."

"If what?"

_Where is she going with this?_

"If it weren't for..." Clarke trails off, looking really concerned now. She's building the suspense, spinning the emotions of the audience to her will. "If it weren't for the—"

She glances down at her stomach. "If it weren't for the baby."

Screaming.

Caesar's confusion.

Clarke walking up to join the rest of the tributes. You hug her and nod when she pulls away and stands next to you.

Members of the Capitol screaming to stop the Games.

You grab Clarke's hand, and then the hand of the Tribute beside you.

All of you are holding hands soon—the first show of unity between all the districts in 75 years.

And then all the lights are cut, throwing everyone into darkness.

* * *

"Baby bomb was a stroke of genius," Haymitch says to Clarke, touching her shoulder. You've all changed back into regular clothes, and you're back in the penthouse assigned to Twelve. "But unfortunately, the Games are still on."

You sigh.

"I got something for you people," Effie says quietly, bringing out a few objects. "You know, I have my hair. Bellamy has his pin. A locket for you," she says, handing a gold locket to Clarke, "and the bangle we talked about for Haymitch."

There's silence.

"We're a team, aren't we?" Effie says, wiping her eyes. 

"Thank you, Effie," Clarke says, taking her hand. You take the other one and squeeze it in reassurance.

"I'm so proud of you two," Effie says, tears flowing freely now. "My two Victors." She steps closer and envelopes you both in a warm hug. "You both deserved— _so much better."_

She leans back, looking into your eyes, then Clarke's. "So much better," she repeats, then she turns to leave.

"Any last minute advice for us?" Clarke asks.

Haymitch steps forward and cups her face in a surprisingly fatherly gesture and smiles sadly. "Stay alive."

He turns and starts to leave, but you say, "Haymitch, wait."

Haymitch pauses and looks at you, and you go and hug him.

"Remember our deal," you murmur. "Keep her alive."

"I will," he says. "And Bellamy. Remember who the real enemy is."

He pulls away, patting your shoulder one last time before leaving.

* * *

Clarke tucks her face deeper into the crook of your neck, tears falling onto your skin. Her leg is thrown over your waist and her hand is resting on top of your heart, where your hand sits atop hers.

"I wish it could just be us two. Alone," you murmur into her hair. "Safe."

"I know," she breathes. 

You close your eyes, letting a few tears of your own fall, too.

"If something happens to me," she says.

"Nothing is happening to you," you insist.

"Hear me out," she sniffles. You don't protest.

"If something happens to me, I need you to use your head and get yourself out of there," she whispers. "I know you tend to think with your heart, and I think with my head. But you need to use your head if you want to go back to Echo and Octavia and Aurora."

"I'll keep you alive," you say.

"Only one person walks away from this," Clarke breathes. "It should be you."

You want desperately to say something, but Clarke's already fallen asleep within the next few minutes, her tears still on your shirt and your collarbones.

"I'm sorry," you say, but she doesn't hear you.

* * *

"Remember," Cinna says, fastening the pin to your arm. "I'm still betting on you, Boy on Fire."

The glass vestibule seals in front of you, and you look at Cinna one last time.

Then the Peacekeepers come in and slam Cinna against the glass, staining it with blood. 

 _"NO!"_ you roar.  _"LET GO OF HIM! CINNA! CINNA!"_ Hands pounding against the glass, but you can do nothing. Your pedestal rises, and you gasp, watching him be dragged away.

Snow.

The countdown commences and then ends, and then you jump into the water in front of you, swimming to the Cornucopia. You grab the bow immediately and shoot at a few tributes, and then you turn to see Luna Floukru, the tribute from Four, smirking at you. She then raises her hand, and you see the gold bangle Effie gave Haymitch.

"Good thing we're allies, right?" Luna asks, and you sigh. You and Haymitch had argued because the only allies you'd wanted were Raven Reyes and Monty Green from Three, the tech-savvy tributes, and Mags, somehow another female from Four, a kind old woman who must be almost eighty at the least.

"Where did you get that?" you ask, bow at the ready.

"Where do you think?" she asks. "Duck."

You do, and you see Luna throw her trident, feel it sink into someone's flesh.

"You take this side, I'll take the other," Luna declares. "I'm gonna go look for Clarke."

Cannons.

"Bellamy!" Luna calls. "Mags found her!"

You rush over to Luna and find Clarke struggling in the water, trying to fight off another girl. You notch an arrow, but then they both go underwater.

Your whole body tenses, and then you hear another cannon, making your entire body go cold.

A body floats to the surface, and you can't stand to look, your eyes closing.

But then strong and slender arms wrap around you, and when your eyes, gold hair, blue eyes, check, check.

"Oh, my god," you whisper, holding her tight.

"I'm here," Clarke breathes.

* * *

Water's damn near impossible to find.

* * *

Clarke's cutting through the jungle foliage with her dagger, and then you see a pearly wall in front of her.

You realize what it is too late.

 _"CLARKE, NO!"_ you scream.

She walks straight into the force field, and the impact sends her flying backward.

"Clarke? Clarke!" you gasp, running to her. You put a hand to her chest.

Nothing.

"She's not breathing," you choke out. "She's not breathing, she's not breathing! CLARKE!"

Luna pushes you aside, then positions her hands over Clarke's chest.

Pushes down several times, then Luna bends down and seals her mouth Clarke's, breathing into it.

You realize that you've seen your mother do this a long time ago, back when she was a healer.

"Clarke, please," you whisper, your hands shaking. "Wake up, wake up—"

Clarke's eyes snap open and she gasps. Then her face breaks into a grin. "Be careful," she breathes. "There's a force field out there."

"Oh, my god," you laugh through your tears, tears you hadn't even realized where there.

_You're Bellamy fucking Blake. Stop crying._

But you don't, and you pull Clarke up and into a long kiss. "You were dead," you murmur against her cheek. "You were dead, Clarke."

"Not anymore," Clarke says, managing a laugh herself.

You look up to see Luna looking at you strangely, as if she's just realized something important.

* * *

Haymitch sends a tool to collect water from within the trees, so that's a bonus.

* * *

You lose Mags to poisonous fog. Luna is mostly silent after that. Most of you are covered in boils, but there's a small pool of water that you all jump into, healing the boils almost instantly.

After that, you trek towards the Cornucopia. You climb a tree and you fire an arrow into the sky, watching pixelated hexagons light up, spreading in a dome-like fashion. You can conclude from that, that the arena is a dome, and Clarke had been at the edge of it.

When you make it to the beach, it doesn't take you long to spot people. You'd been eating some fish Luna caught with her trident, but then you heard voices.

Luna springs up, and you grab your bow. Clarke reaches for her knife.

"John?" Luna says suddenly, then starts to jog to them.

"Luna!" John Murphy's voice calls, and you and Clarke go join her. It's Murphy, Raven, and Monty, and they're all covered in blood.

"Clock," Monty says dazedly, limping. "Clock."

"Yes, clock!" Murphy snaps.

"What the hell happened?" Luna asks.

"We were running from the goddamn fog," Murphy says. "And then the rain started." He laughs mirthlessly. "We thought it was water. Turns out it was blood! And it was everywhere! We were choking on it. And that's when Roma hit the force field."

He lowers his head.

"She wasn't much, but she was from home," Murphy says, pinching the bridge of his red nose.

"Clock!" Monty yells.

"For god's sake, Monty, we know!" Murphy says, shoving Monty.

"You get the hell off him," Bellamy snaps, grabbing Murphy and pulling him away. 

"Hey, easy—" Luna says, wrestling Murphy away. 

"I GOT THEM OUT FOR YOU!" Murphy screams. "FOR YOU!"

You can't understand what that means.

* * *

It's the jabberjays that get you.

"The arena's a clock," Monty says, having regained his composure. "Different horror every hour, a big tsunami at ten."

"Yeah, so—" Luna starts.

And then you hear Octavia screaming.

"Octavia?" you ask. "Octavia!"

You bolt into the trees, ignoring everyone's cries of protest. Echo's screaming joins Octavia's and you really lose it then. You grab an arrow and point it at a bird, shooting it.

The cries stop.

And then they start again.

You sigh. Jabberjays.

Luna runs into you. "Bellamy? What—"

There's a male scream.

"Derrick," Luna breathes, looking around wildly. "Derrick!"

"Luna, stop, it's just jabberjays!" you yell.

"Where do you think they got that sound?" Luna screams. "Jabberjays copy!"

Your blood goes cold.

The birds swarm you both and you scream and scream and Clarke's just a few feet away from you and trying to get to you and it won't stop the screaming won't stop—

* * *

"It's okay, Bell. The hour's over. Hey, look at me."

A small and warm cups your face, and you sit up, gasping. Clarke throws her arms around you.

"Octavia," you gasp.

"They wouldn't torture your sister, the country loves her," Murphy says dryly. "Modified her voice during interviews, probably. There would be riots in the Capitol if they did anything to her."

Murphy looks up and starts to yell."Hey, how does that sound, Snow? How about we set  _your_ backyard on fire and see how you like it?"

Everyone looks at him.

"What?" Murphy asks, looking away. "He can't hurt me. There's no one left that I love."

* * *

"I have an idea," Raven says. "Lightning strikes the big tree at midnight, right? So you take this wire—" She holds it up. "—and you tie it to the tree and take it to the Cornucopia. Water's a good conductor of electricity. So anyone in the water or even the damp sand will be electrocuted. And I'm betting everyone else will be heading for that area since we left it."

"How do you know it's not gonna electrocute  _us?"_ Murphy asks, crossing his arms.

"Because I invented it," Raven says.

* * *

A tribute from six sacrifices herself to save Clarke from monkey mutts, and later, the two of you sit on the beach together, far from everyone else.

"Found a pearl," Clarke says, prying open an oyster shell. It's a dark silver, and she hands it to you. "For Octavia," she explains.

You smile and tug it into your pocket.

"She sacrificed herself for me and I didn't even know her name," Clarke murmurs.

"I know," you say softly, lapsing back into silence.

"I think we should go," you declare after a while, glancing at Raven.

"Her plan's gonna work," Clarke says.

"I think so, too," you sigh. "But once the Careers are dead we both know what happens next. I don't wanna be the one that shoots first."

"What if they don't, either?" Clarke asks. "What if all of us are afraid to shoot first?"

"We might still end up dead," you say.

"Maybe not, I mean, it worked for us last time," Clarke murmurs, looking out at the water.

"They're not gonna make that same mistake again and you know it," you implore. "You know and I know that there's only going to be one person that gets to walk away from this. And it's gonna be one of us."

Clarke looks lost, trying to think of what to say. "The Careers are still out there. We should stick with these guys till midnight, and if we hear a cannon, we go." She looks up and at you, and you look away, nodding.

"Bellamy, I don't—" she starts. "I don't know what kind of deal you made with Haymitch but he made me promises, too."

She reaches up and takes the locket off, fingering the rectangle at the bottom. "If you die, and I live," she sighs. "I'd have nothing. Nobody else that I care about."

Her father had died a while ago. And you don't know how things are with her and her mother.

"Clarke—" you say softly.

"It's different for you," she continues. "Your family needs you."

Clarke pops open the locket, and you see pictures of Echo, Octavia, and Mom.

"You have to live," she breathes. "For them."

You sit in silence before asking—"What about you?"

Clarke smiles at the waves crashing onto the shore. "Nobody needs me."

"I do," you say.  _"I_ need you."

She looks at you, and then you lean forward and kiss her. It's real to you, not for a camera, not for the sake of stopping war. You kiss her simply because you realize that your whole world would shatter into a million pieces without her.

You pull back after a couple of seconds but she chases your lips with her own, kissing you more deeply, more passionately. Your tilt your head to kiss her better and move your hand from where it's been cupping her face to slide into her hair, and she raises a hand to put it on top of yours.

When you finally stop, neither of you go far from each other, foreheads and noses still touching.

"Yo, lovebirds!" Murphy hollers. "Come on!"

She smiles at you before getting to her feet and leaving.

* * *

Raven makes you and Murphy take the wire to the beach, even though you and Clarke tried your absolute best to stay together, but Raven insisted.

You're not far from the lightning tree when you spot the Careers, and then Murphy tackles you to the ground.

"Stay. Down," Murphy snarls, then he digs his knife into your arm, making you scream.

And then Murphy runs.

_Remember who the real enemy is._

A cannon booms.

_Clarke._

Your scramble to your feet and look at the blood on your arm before grabbing your bow lying a few feet away. You wonder why Murphy didn't take it, but you consider yourself lucky.

Then you start to hear Luna screaming your name.

You hold an arrow up and you point it at her. She hasn't seen you yet.

_Let go._

_Come on._

_Let go._

_It's easy._

_It's easy._

_Kill her._

_Let go._

She looks at you, and you don't lower your bow.

"Remember who the real enemy is," Luna murmurs.

_Fine. You wanna know who the real enemy is?_

Thunder booms in the sky, and then you grab the wire and tie it around your arrow.

"Bellamy?" Luna asks, her eyes widening. "What are you—?"

Lightning strikes the tree, and the wire turns blindingly white, and you fire it into the sky.

* * *

You're not sure what happens next.

* * *

The arena crumbling.

* * *

A hovercraft reaching out and picking up your body.

* * *

But you aren't dead.

* * *

You should be dead.

* * *

You sit bolt upright in the hovercraft.

Raven's lying a few feet away from you, knocked out cold but still breathing.

Monty's there, too, also knocked out.

You slowly get to your feet, and you grab a syringe full of a sedative as you approach the doors.

The doors slide open when you approach them, and you see Haymitch, Plutarch, and Luna standing around the table.

"Good morning," Haymitch says, looking grim.

You lunge toward him, raising the syringe, but in your weakened stage, Haymitch grabs your arm before you can do anything and shoves you against a wall.

"What are you doing with them?" you wheeze, still struggling against him.

"What, you and a syringe against the Capitol?" Haymitch asks, prying it from your hands. "See, this is why no one lets you make the plans—"

"What the hell are you doing in here?" you ask.

"Stop, stop," Luna says, raising a hand. "Just listen."

"We couldn't tell you with Snow watching, it was too risky," Haymitch says. "Better for you to know nothing." He releases you, but you don't move.

"Where's Clarke?" you ask.

"Now, Bellamy," Plutarch says. "You have been our mission from the beginning. The plan was always to get you out. Half the tributes were in on it.  _This_ is the revolution. And you are the Mockingjay. And we're on our way to District Thirteen right now."

"Thirteen," you repeat.

"Thirteen, yes," he confirms.

"Where's Clarke?" you ask again.

Luna massages her temples and Haymitch turns to you. "She still has her tracker in her arm. Murphy cut yours out."

"Where is she?" you ask, but the answer is slowly coming to you already.

"In the Capitol," Haymitch sighs. "They got her, and Murphy."

"You  _son of a bitch, you—"_ you scream, punching Haymitch in the jaw. Haymitch grabs your shoulders and holds you down.  _"YOU PROMISED ME THAT YOU WOULD SAVE HER OVER ME, YOU PROMISED ME—"_

A needle digs into your back.

_"—YOU'RE A LIAR!"_

Your voice softens into a pitiful wheeze as you repeat it over and over.  _"You're a liar, you're a liar, you're a liar..."_

* * *

You wake to beeping, and a hand slowly caressing your hair.

It feels like Clarke's hand.

_But no, Clarke is gone, Clarke is gone—_

You open your eyes and see Echo sitting at the edge of the table you're lying on. Your bare chest is damp with sweat, and so is your hair.

"Hey, Bell," Echo says softly. "You're okay. You've just been asleep for a few days."

"Are we home?" you whisper.

Echo doesn't answer.

"Echo?" you prompt. "Where's Octavia?"

"She's alive. So is your mother, I got them out in time."

"Got them out?" you repeat.

"After the Games," Echo murmurs. "They sent in hovercrafts. And they started dropping firebombs."

Your heart stops. "They're not in Twelve?"

"Bellamy," she says gently. "There is no District Twelve. It's all gone."

You gasp and turn your head towards the ceiling, tears escaping from the corners of your eyes.

_Snow._

_I'm going to make him pay._

* * *

**Part Three**

* * *

You rock back and forth in the corridor.

"My name is Bellamy Blake," you whisper to yourself in the darkness. "I'm from District Twelve."

Over and over, on and on.

_My_

_name is_

_Bellamy_

_Blake_

_and_

_I am_

_from_

_District_

_Twelve._

Over and over.

On and on.

* * *

"Bellamy, you can't be in here," a voice calls.

"I had a nightmare," you say. "Just five more minutes."

"You need to sleep. We can help you sleep."

They drag you out of the corridor and away. 

* * *

"Luna," you say, opening the door of her room.

"I wanted to go back for Clarke and John," she says. "But I couldn't move."

She stares blankly at the grey walls.

"They have Derrick, too. My Derrick. They took him. He's... he's in the Capitol."

_(my name is Bellamy Blake and I am from District Twelve)_

"I wish he was dead. I wish they were dead and we were, too."

* * *

"Mr. Blake," a man with black and grey hair says, reaching out and shaking my hand. "Colonel Kane, District Thirteen's head of security. I know you've just been discharged, but President Coin's requested to meet with you."

"Is there any news?" you ask.

"I'm just here to escort you."

* * *

_We were always told there was nothing left of Thirteen. Capitol bombed the surface to rubble. But we're military. So we learned to survive down here. Preparing, training. For us, the war never stopped._

* * *

"There he is," a woman with grey eyes and solid grey hair says. Not the type of grey hair that comes with age, though. Probably dyed. "Our Boy on Fire."

"Madam President, may I present you with the Mockingjay," Kane says, gesturing to you.

"What an honor it is to meet you," Coin says, rising and shaking your hand. "You're a courageous young man. I know how disorienting this must be. And I can't imagine what it's like to live through the atrocities of those Games."

"Bellamy, President Alma Coin," Kane says.

"Please know how welcome you are. I hope you'll find some comfort with us. We've known loss in 13, too. This is history. Right here at this table. I apologize. I wish you had more time to recover, but unfortunately, we don't have that luxury," she says, then points to a seat across from her. "Please, have a seat."

You sit down.

"Are you aware of what's happened?" Coin asks you. You shake your head. "Well, When you fired your arrow at the force field you electrified the nation. There have been riots and uprisings and strikes in seven districts. We believe that if we keep this energy going we can unify the districts against the Capitol. But if we don't, if we let it dissipate, we could be waiting another 75 years for this opportunity.  _Everyone_ in Thirteen has been ready for this."

"What about Clarke?" you ask. "Is she alive?"

"I don't know," Coin says, looking down. "I wish I did. But there's no way for me to contact my operatives inside the Capitol. The Capitol has always suppressed communication between the districts. But I know their system very well. I managed to break through. All we need now is the perfect message, Bellamy."

You cross your arms, swallowing.

"Here's what we need to do," Coin states. "We need to show them that The Mockingjay's alive and well and willing to stand up and join this fight. 'Cause we need every district to stand up to this Capitol. The way you did. So we're gonna shoot a series of propaganda clips, propos, I like to call them, on The Mockingjay. Spreads the word that we're gonna stoke the fire of this rebellion. The fire that The Mockingjay started. That you started."

"You left her there," you say. "You left Clarke in that arena to die."

"Bellamy, there are so many—"

"Clarke was the one who was supposed to live."

"Bellamy, this revolution is about all of us," Coin sighs. "Everyone. And we need a voice."

"Then you should've rescued Clarke," you say, slamming your hand on the table. Unable to bear it any longer, you get up and leave.

* * *

Clarke on the screen. You're absentmindedly stroking Octavia's cat, whom you hate, when Caesar Flickerman appears on the main screen in the mess hall, and Clarke along with him.

You stop eating.

She says she wanted to protect you.

All she wanted.

You two got separated in Raven's plan.

She thinks the arena was destroyed because of the lightning itself.

But you're the one who let it burn.

 _"Clarke, Bellamy destroyed the arena,"_ Caesar says.

 _"No,"_ Clarke breathes.

_"You saw the footage."_

_"No, he didn't know what he was doing. We didn't know there was a bigger plan."_

_"You didn't know?"_

_"No,"_ Clarke says, looking terrified. Pure, raw fear, an expression you've never seen on her.

 _"It seems like Bellamy was part of a rebel plan,"_ Caesar says delicately.

 _"Do you think it was part of her plan to almost be paralyzed by lightning?"_ Clarke snaps. _"Or almost be killed by Murphy? No, we weren't part of any plan. We had no idea."_

 _"Alright, I believe you, Clarke Griffin,"_ Caesar says, but you're not sure if he really does. _"Now, I would ask you to speak about the unrest, but you seem too upset—"_

_"No, I can do it," Clarke says._

_"Are you sure?"_

_"Yes."_

"Thank you."

Clarke looks directly into the camera. _"I want everyone to think about what a civil war could mean. We almost went extinct once before, and now our numbers are even fewer."_

"She's one of them," someone says in the hall.

_"Is this really what we want to do?"_

"She's a traitor!"

_"Kill ourselves off? Killing isn't the answer."_

"I can't believe she's doing this," Echo says beside you.

_"Everyone needs to lay down their weapons immediately."_

"Traitor!"

"She's not one of us!"

"This is treason!"

 _"Are you calling for a ceasefire?"_ Caesar asks.

_"Yes, I am."_

"Hang her!"

_"I want everyone to stop the senseless violence. This isn't the path to change. It isn't the path to justice."_

"There can't be a ceasefire, not after everything Snow's done," you say.

"He could've done a lot of damage tonight," Echo says sullenly. "Most districts, they're too afraid to join. They need courage. Why the hell do you think she said that?"

"I don't know," you admit. "Maybe she was forced."

"She didn't look that bad," Echo says. "Maybe she's made some deal to protect you."

"She's still playing the game," you say.

* * *

"I've decided to be your Mockingjay," you say. "But I have some conditions."

"Now—" Coin starts, but Plutarch holds up a hand.

"Clarke and the other tributes, John Murphy and Derrick Abano will be rescued at the earliest opportunity. If and when Clarke is liberated, she will receive a full and unconditional pardon. No punishment will be inflicted, and the same goes for the other tributes."

"No," Coin says.

"It's not their fault you  _abandoned_ them," you hiss. "They're doing and saying what they can to survive."

"Individuals don't make demands in Thirteen," Coin says.

You cross your arms, refusing to back down.

"There will be a tribunal," Coin says finally. "And fair judgement."

_No. It won't fucking be fair at all._

"Thank you," you choke out, walking towards the door, but then you start.

_Bellamy Blake, going down this easy? Please._

You turn around. "The Victors will be granted immunity," you say firmly, walking to the table. "And you will announce that in front of the entire population of Thirteen. You will hold  _yourself_ and  _your government_ responsible or you will  _find—another—Mockingjay."_

"That's him, right there," Plutarch says, looking pleased. "Our Mockingjay. Madam President, we're losing ground because the people are losing heart. This is worth the risk. He is worth the risk."

Coin leans back. "Do you have any other conditions?" she asks finally.

"Octavia gets to keep her cat."

* * *

Propos, announcements, promises.

Months go by, with you as the face of the rebellion.

But none of the propos are aired, because you sound too flat, too unemotional.

It’s true, down to every ugly detail—you can’t do this without her.

Clarke.

And then one day they do make a good propo, the day they send you to District Eight.

You’re in a small hospital, and then suddenly there are people raising three fingers in the air, because Bellamy, Bellamy Blake, the Mockingjay has come to save them.

The Capitol bombs the hospital as soon as you leave it.

There are no survivors and for a moment your rage replaces everything else, fills the hollow void of everything that you lost.

”You see that?” you finally ask, glaring at the cameras. “Fire is catching. And if we burn, you burn with us.”

Inspirational words hiding an empty threat.

It isn’t fair, and at some point, you start to long for another Capitol interview just so you can see her face. You’ve forgotten the small details and you’re not sure how, but you hate yourself for it.

But maybe it is the lack of color here in Thirteen that makes you forget the exact shades of Clarke’s eyes and Clarke’s hair, the lack of comfort here that makes you forget the feeling of Clarke standing near you, Clarke’s fingers laced with yours.

You just want to see her again.

* * *

You do get your wish, though it’s not in the way you imagined, not at all the way you’d wanted.

“They’re specifically not letting me watch any broadcasts of Clarke, are they?” you ask Echo as the two of you head to the mess hall to quickly get something to eat before a tactical meeting.

“I’m gonna be honest with you,” Echo says carefully after a moment. “It was— _unadvised_ —to let you see her.”

She immediately grabs your wrist then, as if there was any danger of you immediately attempting to burn the place down because of this.

Although, the idea sounds rather tempting to you.

“Coin can go fuck herself,” you mumble, none of your usual heat in your words, all the fire going out of you at once. You push the door of the mess hall open, and then you see _her._

Her once beautifully bright eyes are sunken and dull, looking more like dirty snow on the ground rather than a clear sky. The edges of her face the area beneath her eyes are painted in galaxies of blue and purple and green bruises, and she faces the camera, not even a spot of defiance or fear in her eyes.

Nothing.

 _“He was arguably our favorite Tribute. And I think that’s what we all find most astonishing, is that this boy was adored in the Capitol. And I think for you, Clarke, it must be particularly painful,”_ Caesar says softly.

Clarke turns away from the camera, staring straight down. _“I wish I could see you, Bellamy,”_ she whispers, and god, even her voice doesn’t sound right, too high, too emotionless.

“She’s changed so much already,”you gasp. “What the hell are they doing to her?”

 _“Sweet words for a man who has inspired such senseless violence. You must love him_ _very much to have forgiven him,”_ Caesar says, his voice softened by rehearsed sympathy. _“I don’t think_ I _could.”_

“She’s shaking,” you whisper.

 _“Unless, of course, you think he’s being coerced into saying things he doesn’t believe in,”_ Caesar adds.

 _“Yeah, that’s exactly it,”_ Clarke says. Out of the corner of your eye you can see Echo’s jaw clench.

 _“I think they’re using him as a mascot,”_ she says. _“To whip up the rebels. Cause all sorts of trouble.”_

For a moment, it seems like she might actually smile, but then it falters, replaced by a second of confusion before her face resumes its impassive state again.

_“I doubt the rebels would ever let him see this, but if he were watching now, Clarke, what would you say to him? To Bellamy Blake, the once sweet Bellamy Blake. From the bottom of your heart, Clarke, what would you say?”_

She faces the camera again. _“Please tell me that going to war isn’t you want, Bellamy. I told you to use your head. Think for yourself, now.”_ Tears start to roll down her pale face. _“Don’t be a fool, Bellamy. know you never wanted the rebellion. The things that you did in the Games were never intended to start all of this. The rebels have made you into something that you’re not, something that could destroy all of us. So if you have any power or any say in what they do or how they use you; please, please, urge them to stop this war before it’s too late, and ask yourself, can you trust the people you’re working with? Do you know what they really want?”_

“We have to respond to this,” Echo murmurs.

_“Thank you, Clarke Griffin, for these revelations about the true Mockingjay—“_

“Did you _see_ what she looks like?” you ask softly.

“I saw a _coward—“_

“You have no idea what she’s going through,” you shoot back.

“I don’t care!” Echo exclaims. “I would _never_ say what she just said, not with a knife to my throat or a gun to my head!”

“That is the _same Clarke,”_ you say, “that defended you at the whipping post.”

“It’s not,” Echo says coldly. “Now she’s only defending _herself.”_

Her watch beeps, then she looks up at you with a considerably softer expression. “Coin called a meeting. We have to respond.”

“When did ‘we’ become you and Coin?” you ask contemptuously, not even really looking for an answer.

”Everyone has a choice. How can she sit there in the Capitol and defend the people who destroyed her home and murdered her family?”

“Clarke doesn’t know what they did to Twelve,” you say. “No one does. So we show them.”

* * *

 It’s dust and rubble and bones, white and clean except for the soot. Not a lot of blood anywhere.

You’re in your old kitchen in Victor’s Village, which they left fully intact. You suppose that it’s probably because of the necessity of a nice place to stay if anyone from the Capitol ever comes back here for more than a day trip. Gathering bottles of herbs, because you suppose the hospital will be happy to use them.

“This is where you kissed me, Echo says softly from behind you, and you have no idea when she came into the kitchen.

“I didn’t think you’d remember that,” you mumble.

“I’d have to be dead to forget. Maybe not even then.”

Your feet carry you forward, and you tip your head down to touch her lips almost against your own will.

But Echo pulls away, suddenly unable to meet your eyes. “I knew you’d do that,” she says.

“How? I didn’t know.”

“Because I'm in pain,” Echo sighs, and you bite back a sudden urge to burst into angry tears. What does she want with you? What does this fucking world went with you?

Haven’t you given everyone enough?

* * *

The lake hidden in the forest is untouched, as it should be. You, Echo, Kane, and the rest of your camera crew sit at the edge of the lake, savoring silence.

Silence makes you slightly uncomfortable now—it reminds you too much of a life that is now so impossible it seems grotesquely surreal. Crouching in the woods as you hunted, sitting in unfamiliar terrain in the seconds, the hours between canons. Memories that are harshly divided into life and death, neither category suiting you anymore. You hover in the uncertain area in between, desperate for everything and nothing at all.

It’s broken by a melodic trill of a mockingjay.

Cressida, the main camerawoman with short blonde waves and half of her head shaved and covered in intricate tattoos, smiles softly to herself, both indulgent and grim.

Jasper, also part of your crew, used to live in the Capitol. He was an Avox—had his tongue cut out for committing a crime.

You’ve never really seen him smile, but he does now, and whistles the four note tune you and Charlotte used as a signal.

There’s a sensation like something shattering tearing through your body, but it disappears when Jasper looks at you with a boyish grin and touches his fingers to his own lips and makes a vague gesture.

“You want me to sing?” you ask.

He nods.

You think of bloodstained jackets and Charlotte’s brown hair. _Can you sing to me?_

You open your mouth, your eyelids falling. You don’t sing the song you sang her, no. You sing of murder and promises that could not be kept. You sing of lovers torn apart and scattered across the universe. You know Cressida is recording, but whereas that should make you self-conscious, it motivates you instead. You sing a tragedy, with the enemies as your audience.

* * *

“Bellamy, you’re wanted in Command.”

Octavia rolls her eyes behind Kane’s back, and you smirk at her before standing up. “Don’t feed the rest of my dinner to the cat!” you say.

“As if you’ll be back to finish it!” Octavia says, and you think you see Kane smile.

Your heart stops when Kane opens the door to the main command room.

If there was a physical embodiment of death and beauty mixed together, the person on the screen was it. 

Clarke’s face is gaunt and her eyes are even more sunken than the last time he saw her. But her hair looks clean and soft, tumbling down around her shoulders. Her bruises look even more vibrant against her even paler skin, looking terrifyingly solid and permanent, as if her skin itself has adopted those colors. Her eyes are now a kaleidoscope of colors—blue and grey and green, and you can’t tell whether it’s your eyes playing tricks or the quality of the broadcast or the tears in her own eyes that gives them that effect. 

Your head starts to spin.

 _“Tonight, we’ve received reports of derailed trains, of granaries on fire, and of a savage attack on the hydroelectric dam in District 5,”_ Clarke says, and her voice is on the verge of breaking.

_What have they done to you?_

“I’m begging for restraint and decency,” she continues, and it feels like someone poured poison into your mouth. Clarke Griffin doesn’t beg. That’s not her at all,

But it doesn’t make it any easier to look at her.

“We interrupt your regularly scheduled bullshit to bring you…” Raven says from somewhere in the room—

Clarke’s face disappears, and then it’s you.

Footage of you standing seemingly alone among the wreckage of District Twelve.

_(Are you, are you?_

_Coming to the tree…)_

Your voice, your song that you learned in the streets of District Twelve more than a decade ago, filling your ears, playing as you venture further into the sooty mass.

“That’s it!” Coin says. “That’s our footage!”

“Raven is in the system,” Plutarch murmurs.

It flickers back to Clarke, who’s now looking somewhere, her expression one of the purest heartbreak and the rawest, smallest sliver of hope.

 _“Bellamy?”_ she asks quietly.

Hearing your name on her lips sends you stumbling back, and you feel Raven grabbing your elbow.

“She can see it,” Coin says softly. “She can see the propo.”

_“Bellamy, are you there?”_

_Together._

“Clarke,” you say, walking closer to the screen.

 _“Bellamy,”_ she says again, as if she can actually hear you, and you feel pressure building in your chest.

 _“Clarke, can you please continue?”_ Caesar asks from somewhere offscreen.

She blinks. Faces the camera again. _“The attack on the dam was a callous and inhuman act of destruction…”_

_(A dead man called out…_

_For his love to flee…)_

_“You all need to use your heads,”_ she breathes. _“Think about it. How will this end?”_

_(Strange things have happened…)_

_“No one can survive this. No one is safe now. Not here in the Capitol. Not in any of the districts—”_

She stops for one second, and in that one second she becomes Clarke Griffin again, her eyes shining in the brightest shade of blue, and brimming with defiance and purpose as she tilts her head to completely face the camera head on, as if she’s staring deep into your eyes.

_“They’re coming, Bellamy. They’re gonna kill everyone, and District Thirteen you’ll be dead be morning—!”_

She says this all in one panicked breath before the broadcast cuts out and there’s not a single sound except your steadily accelerating breathing—

“She’s warning us,” Haymitch says. “That was a warning.”

“Yeah,” Kane says, crossing his arms.

“Well, we can’t just sit around, we have to get her out before they kill her,” you urge.

“Is there anything in the air?” Coin asks one of the systems operators.

“Nothing on Doppler, Madam President.”

“Well, she is in the Presidential Mansion,” Coin muses. “Clarke could’ve heard something.”

Heavensbee shifts from one foot to another, looking slightly concerned. “Possibly.”

“It’s time for an air raid drill, then,” Coin says ominously, pulling a lever.

And then the alarm begins to scream.

* * *

_(This is a Code Red alert. Please remain calm and begin evacuation procedure.)_

There seem to be a million people in the mess hall, and your cries of Octavia’s name are drowned by the voices of all the others.

_(Proceed to your nearest stairwell and descend to level 40. Blast doors will be sealed in six minutes.)_

You descend further down the endless spiral of stairs, perpetually outlining one big triangle. Lower and lower, your screams for Octavia getting louder and louder.

_(This is a code red alert. Please, remain calm and begin evacuation protocol. Proceed in an orderly fashion to your nearest stairwell and descend to level 40. Blast doors will close in four minutes.)_

The lights suddenly shut off, and the sprinkler system activates. It’s a momentarily mesmerizing sight—the bright red emergency lights flashing on and off, the sprinkle of water like a million tiny diamonds surrounding you, cold seeping into your bones and your hair. Time itself seems to slow down as you take it all in, embrace the raw panic that crackles like electricity around you.

People start to scream louder but they move faster and with more efficiency, organized chaos.

You stumble into the bunker.

_(Continue to the Supply Station and claim one pack for each member of your compartment. Please keep all personal items within your assigned area. Be courteous to your fellow citizens. This is a code red alert. All citizens should be inside the bunker. Blast doors will close in two minutes.)_

“Mom,” you say, temporary relief slamming into your gut when you see her at your assigned bunk. “Where’s Octavia?”

“I thought she was with you!” she says, and your heart stops beating.

_My sister, my responsibility._

_My sister, my responsibility._

“She might still be on the stairs,” Aurora says hopefully.

“There’s no one on the stairs—” Your voice falters as you realize the truth. “She went back for the cat.”

_My sister, my responsibility._

Somehow, over all the noise, you can hear your pouring footsteps as you run out of the bunker.

_My sister, my responsibility._

_(Blast doors will close in one minute.)_

You find her on the stairs, clutching the stupid cat in one arm and Echo’s hand in another.

_(Blast doors will close in thirty seconds.)_

_My sister, my responsibility._

They rush down the stairs, you screaming her name, Octavia screaming yours. 

_(This is a Code Red alert)_

_My sister, my responsibility._

_“COME ON!”_ you yell.

_(Blast doors will close in fifteen seconds)_

“Go, go, go,” Echo says, shoving Octavia into Bellamy’s arms as they sprint towards the blast doors.

_(Blast doors will close in ten seconds)_

They’re still three flights of stairs up.

_(nine seconds)_

Octavia stumbles, and you grab the back of her shirt before she can fall.

_(eight seconds)_

You miss a step and it send you sliding down the painfully sharp steps for a second before you grab a railing.

_(seven seconds)_

_(six seconds)_

_(five seconds)_

“Hold the doors!” you bellow.

_(four)_

_(three)_

_(two)_

_“HOLD THE DOORS!”_ you repeat, watching Octavia stumble into the bunker.

_(one.)_

You barely make it and Echo has to slide in, angling her body sideways as she comes in while the doors close.

_(Blast doors are now sealed.)_

* * *

You hear, or feel the first bomb just as you find your bunk.

It shakes the whole bunker, makes dust rain from the ceiling.

You sit down heavily on your bed, grabbing a bedpost.

There’s another blast, worse than the last, one that sends vibrations through your very bones.

_(“Who we are and who we need to be to survive are two very different things,” you’d said to her one night during the Victory Tour, stroking her hair.)_

_(blue eyes)_

_(”If you need forgiveness, I'll give that to you, okay? You’re forgiven,” she urged, cupping your cheek. She’s always there after every nightmare, always there to forgive you. “But you can’t run, Bellamy.”)_

_(golden hair)_

_(“I didn’t like you at first, that’s no secret.”_

_“Really?”)_

_(“We can’t lose Clarke,” you said softly to yourself, walking away from Haymitch’s house.)_

_(“The head and the heart,” she said, sitting up in your bed, the morning the Quarter Quell began. The morning where your lives went to shit._

_“Hmm?” you asked, peeling off your shirt._

_“That’s us,” she said, her voice so soft you wondered if she was under the influence of something. “I’m the head, you’re the heart.”)_

“Octavia, talk to me about something. Anything,” you say suddenly.

A blast rattles the bunks.

“They promoted me at the hospital. I forgot to tell you,” says Octavia, looking less bothered by the blasts than anyone else in the vicinity, including you. “They’re training me to be a doctor.”

You think of Clarke.

_She’s a good doctor._

“They’d be stupid not to,” you say finally.

* * *

“Hey. Can I sit?” you ask, pointing at the empty space next to Luna on her bed.

She nods mutely, patting the spot next to her. You sit down and see that she’s holding a picture of a smiling man in her hands.

“Is that Derrick?” you ask softly.

“Yes,” she says, her voice equally gentle.

“Who is he?”

“He was my mentor,” Luna says, putting the picture down. “In my Games. “About my age—he won the Games two years before I did.”

She chuckles softly to herself. “Such a fragile, broken person they thought he was. Derrick was never the same after his Games. Haunted.”

Luna picks up the picture and touches one finger to his face. “But he was so strong. Stronger than anyone knew. He even made me laugh, those first few days after my own Games. I guess we were both really messed up—but we had each other. We completed each other. Forgiveness, love, respect, that was what we had, unconditional and eternal.”

She looks at you now, touching your shoulder.

All of a sudden, you remember Clarke’s pearl. 

You never did give it to Octavia, and you don’t think you ever will. It feels heavy in your pocket.

“Snow’s using them to punish us,” you murmur. “Taunting us.”

“After your first Games, I thought the whole romance was an act. We all expected you to continue that strategy. But it wasn’t until Clarke’s heart stopped and she nearly died that I knew I’d misjudged you. You love her. I’m not saying in what way, maybe you don’t even know yourself. But anyone paying attention can see it.”

“How…” you begin. “How do you live with it?”

“I drag myself out of nightmares and there’s no relief in waking up. But it’s better not to give in to it. It takes ten times longer to put yourself back together than it does to fall apart.”

* * *

 “Bellamy,” Kane says gently, shaking your shoulder. You’ve always been a light sleeper, so you wake up at his first touch. “Bellamy, you need to come with me.”

He takes you Coin in the Command Center.

“Really put a hundred and ten percent into it, didn’t they?”

Twelve bombs. You counted.

“Yes,” you say. “They did.”

“Your mother and sister okay?”

“Yeah, they’re fine.”

“I need you to do something for us,” Coin says. “I need you to tell our country that we survived an attack by the Capitol with no casualties, that we remain fully operational.”

“Okay,” you say flatly. Evidently noting your lack of enthusiasm, she puts on a mildly softer expression.

“You should know that we had eight extra minutes of civilian evacuation because of Clarke Griffin’s warning. That is not something I will be forgetting.”

“Thank you.”

* * *

The upper levels of Thirteen are dusty at best, in pieces at the worst of the damaged area. You and the camera crew take your time going up to the surface, a unit of security following close behind.

“Remember, Bellamy,” Cressida says. “It’s ‘Thirteen is alive and well and so am I.’”

A familiar smell washes over you, one that makes your blood turn to ice in your veins. You got that smell when Snow visited your study. 

You remember the white rose in his pocket.

You look down in one of the gaping craters left by the bombs, see thousands upon thousands of white roses on the ground. And something silver and shiny sprinkled among them, like a million little razor blades.

You walk forward and pick up one of the silver objects, and you let out an involuntary gasp when you realize what it is. It’s exactly like the pearl in your pocket, but you drop the one you hold when you realize half of it is covered in dried blood.

“Why would they drop these?” Echo asks, touching the small of your back.

“For me.”

“Bellamy?”

Time slows, sound and color fades, and you can feel yourself going into shock. 

 _“Bellamy._ Tell Snow that Thirteen is alive and well.”

“He’ll kill her,” you murmur, so quietly that even Echo won’t hear.

“Bellamy, can you speak up?”

“He’s going to kill Clarke,” you say, a little louder, and Echo’s head snaps to yours, her eyes widening.

“Bellamy, we don’t have a mic on you,” Cressida sighs.

“I can’t do this,” you choke out. 

“Hey, hey,” Echo says, reaching up and grabbing your shoulders. “You _can.”_

 _“No!”_ you say forcefully, yanking yourself out of her grasp. “I can’t do this! Don’t—don’t make me do this!”

Your voice breaks on every other word, becoming nothing more than a wheeze at some point.

“It never—he’s never going to—it’s never gonna stop,” you whisper, stumbling backward. “Never.”

“Bellamy,” Haymitch says gently, pulling you into a rough embrace. “It’s okay.”

“He warned me,” you say, standing stiffly in his arms. “He told me this would happen. He’ll kill her to punish me.”

You start to struggle against his grip. “Don’t make me do this, don’t make me—”

“Let him go,” Kane says quietly, and he does.

* * *

_(my name is Bellamy Blake and I am from District Twelve)_

Your hands clutch at the tangled mess of your curls as you try to control your breathing in the darkened corridor.

You wonder if she’s already dead, if her blood was what was on those pearls.

_(my name is Bellamy Blake and I am from District Twelve)_

You can still smell the roses, and you’re actively trying not to choke on nothing at all.

_(my name is Bellamy Blake and I am from District Twelve.)_

“So this is it, huh,” Haymitch says, walking up to you. “I suppose you’ll just hide down here forever?”

“I can’t be the Mockingjay.”

“Not the Mockingjay, just Bellamy. You know, you’re the only real friend I have down here.”

You don’t bother responding. You know it’s not true.

“I don’t suppose they gave you any kind of medication?” Haymitch asks hopefully.

You scoff. “You’re fucking unbelievable.”

“Okay, but I meant what I said.”

You glance up at him, and judging by the way his face changes, you’re pleased to know you can still stare him down.

“I… look, the reason I’m here is to let you know they’re rescuing Clarke,” he says.

This gets your attention, sends a violent flood of emotion crashing through you.

“What?” you say stupidly.

“The dam went down in District 5, took out most of the power to the Capitol, knocked out their signal defense. Raven’s inside their system now wreaking all kinds of havoc. A window is open to us. How much longer? I don’t know. I guess until the Capitol can get the power back on.”

“And Coin?” you ask, because there’s no way Coin would actually sanction something like this.

“You know, I can never fully support that woman in light of the prohibition they have going on around this place,” Haymitch mutters, “but Plutarch got word that Clarke and the others are in the Tribute Center. And with the power out, Coin sees this as an opportunity. She knows that Clarke is the Capitol’s weapon, the same way you’re ours. And as opposed to having you two pointing at each other, she’s going to get her.”

For one bizarre moment, you feel like smiling. 

_As if you weren’t going to be weaponized by the good guys, too._

It disappoints you a little to think of Clarke’s predicament now. If they hadn’t fucked with her head as soon as they took her, Clarke would’ve had everyone in the Presidential Mansion dead by the morning after her capture.

But they were too smart for her, the rebels were too smart for you.

And in the midst of your mildly philosophical brooding, Haymitch’s news hits you again, with full force this time.

“I have to go help,” you declare, rocketing to your feet. You’re already unsteady from your emotions, and standing up too fast makes your head spin. Regardless, you start to walk towards the exit of the corridor until Haymitch grabs your arm and stops you. You shove his arm off, but you don’t move.

“Hey, woah, kiddo,” Haymitch says, throwing his hands up in surrender. “Come on. What, are you just gonna jump out of the vent and go storm the Capitol? Besides, it’s already underway. Six soldiers went in. Volunteer only. And guess who was the first brave soul to sign up.”

Your skin prickles. “Echo.”

* * *

 

You burst into the main control room in the Command Center, and you see Luna standing in the main bomb crater, facing the camera.

“Is she doing a propo?” you ask.

“It’s a lot more than that,” Raven says. “I’ve got a hold of their system. Now that they’re down to generator power there’s a more limited range of frequencies available to them. And I’m filling them all up with Luna.”

_“This is Luna Floukru. Winner of the 65th Hunger Games. And I’m coming to you from District 13, alive and well. We’ve survived an assault from the Capitol, but I’m not here to give you recent news.”_

“Not many will see it, but whoever does will think it’s another propo,” Plutarch explains.

“Yeah, and what they don’t know is this broadcast is jamming their entire system with noise. Early defense warning, internal communications, everything. As long as the broadcast goes through, our team should be able to get in and out undetected.”

_“The truth, not the myths about a life of luxury. Not the lie about glory for your homeland. You can survive the arena. The moment you leave, you’re a slave.”_

You remember Clarke twirling a knife between her fingers.

_“President Snow used to sell me, or my body, at least. I wasn’t the only one. If a Victor is considered desirable, the President gives them as a reward or allows people to buy them. If you refuse, then he kills someone you love.”_

Yes, Luna’s exceptionally pretty if you bother to consider it, and you used to think she enjoyed all the attention from her army of fans.

Now, your eyes burn with rage, a desire to set things right for her.

_“To make themselves feel better, my patrons would make presents of money or jewelry. But I found a much more valuable form of payment. Secrets.”_

You struggle to remember the exact expression on Clarke’s face when she faced the Peacekeeper in the square, defending you and Echo.

_“See, I know all the depravity, the deceit and the cruelty of the Capitol’s pampered elite. But the biggest secrets are about our good President, Coriolanus Snow.”_

Her smile, that held you to reality, that people would start wars over. The smile that people would die for. The smile that you killed for.

_“Such a young man when he rose to power, such a clever one to keep it. How, you may ask, did he do it? One word. Poison. He stopped every mutiny before it even started. There were so many mysterious deaths to adversaries. Even to allies who were threats. Snow would drink from the same cup, to deflect suspicion. But antidotes don’t always work, which is why he wears roses that reek of perfume. Help cover the scent of blood from sores in his mouth that will never heal.”_

You make an involuntary sound in your throat that makes it sound like you’re about to throw up. Without looking back, Raven reaches her arm behind her back and wiggles her fingers, and you take them gratefully. She squeezes your hand before pulling hers away, and you feel a lot calmer.

_“But he can’t hide the scent of who he really is. He kills without mercy. He rules with deception and fear. His weapon of choice is the only thing suited to such a man. Poison. The perfect weapon for a snake.”_

You check Raven’s screen, where she’s monitoring the team in theTribute Center, and everything suddenly goes white.

“Raven?” you ask.

“I’m losing them,” she groans.

“Powering back up,” Coin says.

“Madam President, the Capitol air defense system is rebooting. It’s coming back online,” Raven states. “Must be diverting power from another source and filtering transmissions. I’d give it another sixty seconds before we’re cut off.”

“Broadcast me,” you say, crossing your arms and assuming your most assertive stance. Plutarch looks wary for a moment, but he takes one look at you and his whole body seems to swell with pride. “Yes. It’s a good idea.”

“Put him on,” Coin orders.

“Hey, can we still even do this?” Haymitch asks.

“Yeah, for now, the line’s still open,” Raven confirms. “Snow will only see Bellamy.”

“Alright, Bellamy, go,” Haymitch prompts.

You grit your teeth. “President Snow? President Snow, this is Bellamy Blake.”

“There’s no guarantee he’s even watching,” Coin says in a hushed tone behind you.

“I know, but he might be,” Plutarch responds.

 _“President Snow._ Can you hear me? It’s Bellamy.”

There’s a tense and heavy silence.

 _“Mr. Blake, what a lovely surprise,”_ Snow says in warbled tones, his image on the large monitor becoming clearer and clearer. _“What an unimaginable honor. I don’t suppose you called to thank me for the pearls?”_

You clench your fists, but you maintain a neutral expression. “I never asked for this,” you say.

Snow arches an eyebrow.

“You know, I really fucking hate when people just make me a part of their big game,” you spit out. 

“Bellamy,” Raven says quietly, shooting you a warning glance.

You sigh, trying to slow the thunderous beat of your heart. “I never asked to be a part of the Hunger Games,” you say more quietly. “Never asked to be the Mockingjay. I just wanted to save my sister and keep Clarke alive.”

_Is he going to tell me that I failed?_

_“Bellamy, you couldn’t ever run from this,”_ Snow says with a cold smile. _“Couldn’t run from this any more than you could run from the Games. I told you, didn’t I? I warned you about the consequences of your idea of opposition.”_

“You win,” you say, your whole body vibrating with rage and desperation. “You’ve already beaten me. Release Clarke and take me instead.”

_“The time for noble sacrifices has passed long ago.”_

“Then tell me what to do,” you say, stepping closer to the monitor, staring directly at the camera above it. “I keep my promises, don’t I?”

_“You said you didn’t want a war, and that’s just what’s happened. I told you what a fragile thing peace was. And still, like a child, you took pleasure in breaking it. I know what you are. I know you can’t see past your narrowest concerns. But please, Bellamy, I doubt you know what honesty is anymore.”_

“You asked me to convince you that I loved her,” you say, refusing to speak Clarke’s name out loud. “Haven’t I at least done that?”

 _“She must be pretty important to you,”_ Snow says, smiling even more widely.

“She is.”

_“My dear, it is the things we love most that destroy us. I want you to remember that I said that. Don’t you think I know your friends are in the Tribute Center?”_

You’re cut off, the monitor going dark.

“Bellamy?” Raven asks, shooting to her feet and grabbing your arm. “Man my station,” she says to another operator.

“What happened?” you breathe.

“Kane, come in,” one of the operators murmur into a mic. 

“He knew the whole time,” you mumble. “It was a trap.”

“Bellamy, I need you to keep it together,” Raven says firmly, reaching up and stroking your hair.

You remember the time Octavia broke her arm, when you were fourteen and she was eight. You remember the sheer panic that clogged your throat and surrounded you like an itchy blanket. She’d cried for a minute, but in the end Octavia had been trying to reassure you as you carried her back home.

_(“Bell, I’m gonna need you to hold it together.”)_

“No, Raven, he knew the whole fucking time! He was taunting me! They’re still in there, and—”

A scream builds in your throat, and for the first time in a long time, you’re angry with yourself for feeling this way, so helpless and so scared and so unable to breathe. You begin to break down, and Raven grabs your shoulders.

“Hey, Bellamy. _Bellamy._ We don’t know that.”

Raven tugs you into a rough embrace, resting her chin on your shoulder. 

“Did I lose them both tonight?” you ask her, shaking, feeling so pathetic and weak and angry and _scared._ “Did I—”

* * *

It takes you twenty-one minutes to recover from the mother of all mental breakdowns, and you sit alone at the mess hall, Raven having left a long time ago to help out at Command. You clutch Clarke’s pearl in your hand, staring hard at the table.

Coin comes and sits next to you a few minutes later.

“There’s no news. I’m sorry.”

Sometimes you find it easier to imagine that Clarke was gone for some reason she chose of her own volition. Easier for you to imagine that she’s on a plane somewhere, watching the sky explode into a dazzling array of clouds and color, or that she’s painting or sketching in a place with the view of the sea. Easier to think she’s not suffering because of you, because of the choices you have to make.

“It’s the worst torture in the world. Waiting, when you know there’s nothing you can do. Especially for people like us. But whatever strength, courage, madness, keeps us going, you find it, at times like these,” Coin says gently, and when you turn your head you’re alarmed to see that she’s crying. “You have it, soldier. It’s what’s kept you alive all this time. And it won’t fail you now.”

You nod, and you reach up to wipe a tear away from your cheek.

* * *

You sit on the edge of Luna’s bed, clutching her hand as she tells you stories about Derrick, when Haymitch opens the door.

“They’re back.”

* * *

The two of you run towards the hospital and you’re greeted by the sight of John Murphy sitting up in his hospital bed, yanking tubes out of his arms. “No, I don’t fucking want that—”

“Murphy,” you breathe, and then he smiles at you, but it’s a horrible smile, making his bruised and bloodied face look like shattered stained glass.

“Luna? _Luna!”_

A man in a hospital gown runs to her and picks her up, hugging her tight.

“Derrick,” she sobs, over and over. “You’re safe.”

They move their faces back a little to stare deeply into each other’s eyes before sealing their lips in a firm kiss, and then you have to look away, remembering a kiss on a beach, a long time ago, in another world.

Your gaze lands on Echo, and you sprint over to her, pulling her into your arms, lifting her an inch or so off the ground.

“Are you okay?” you ask gruffly, pulling back.

“I don’t get it,” Echo says, biting her lip. “Every gun was back online and on us and we flew right past them. They let us go.”

She follows your searching gaze and tilts her chin towards another door. “She’s in there. The gas we used on the guards knocked her out, too, but it’s wearing off now. You should be there when she wakes up.”

You hug Echo again. “Thank you.”

* * *

 

Her face is pale and bruised, and you can’t read the expression in her eyes when she finally meets your gaze. The nurses around her are bandaging various wounds on her arms, including a long cut down one of her arms.

Something feels wrong.

Out of the two of you, someone would’ve been elated at the reunion, but all you feel is dread.

“Clarke?” you ask quietly.

And then you’re not entirely sure how or when, but suddenly your head’s being slammed against a wall and then the floor, hands clutching your collar. A knee jammed into your chest, and at this point you’re dizzy and you’re winded.

Blue eyes, blonde hair, check, check.

Clarke rams her elbow into your throat and you choke.

But you don’t struggle.

A part of your brain has realized the situation a lot more quickly than the rest of you, and with Clarke’s finger closing around your throat and murder in her eyes, you start to pray that she succeeds in whatever she intends to do.

She’s strong. And as of now, she’s stronger than you, judging by how your mental deterioration affected your physical strength. So you couldn’t live even if you wanted to. 

Too strong. The fingers around your throat are too tight.

It would be the greatest gift if she killed you—truly. After all the horror you’ve seen and all the horror you’ve brought to life, there had always been the monster deep in the darkest recesses of your brain, begging you to give in, to stop resisting the call of the void. With sickening satisfaction, you realize that you want this, that you do not fight because this will give you everything you want.

The monster in this story is Clarke Griffin now, and it’s okay that she’s the one to grant you the final wish, the last choice you made of your own volition.

 _Kill me_ , you’d whispered in your first Games, begging for it all to end.

_Kill me._

And she does.

* * *

**Part Four**

* * *

The first sensation is something around your throat, and then you remember Clarke’s hands around your neck and you struggle to pry her fingers off—

“No, Bellamy,” Kane says, materializing at your side. “No, no, no. You’re swollen. Don’t touch it. No, no, no. Calm down. Calm down. You’re okay.”

You slowly lower your hand. It’s just a neck brace.

Then you open your mouth to say something, but Kane holds up a hand. 

“Don’t try to talk. Clarke’s okay, I promise. I just had to get her off you.”

You stare at the ceiling.

“It’s okay,” Kane says. “You’re okay.”

* * *

“It’s called hijacking,” Plutarch says. Haymitch and Raven and Octavia are gathered in your hospital room as Plutarch talks. “We don’t know how long the Capitol’s been doing this to Clarke.”

“It’s fear conditioning enhanced with tracker jacker venom,” Raven explains. “You were stung your first Games, remember? The venom puts the subject in a dissociative state. And they torture her with shocks and beatings and strip down her identity. And then all of that suffering and fear is redirected, associated with other memories or a person.”

You shake your head and put it in your hands.

“So you’re saying they changed her memories of Bellamy,” Octavia says.

“To make him seem life-threatening. To make him seem like the enemy,” Raven says.

“They turned her into a weapon,” Haymitch says. “To kill you.”

If your throat didn’t feel like it was being shredded to pieces, you might’ve laughed. Of course they would do such a thing.

You haven’t ever really seen her in action until she tried to kill you, but you know Clarke’s a good fighter—and now you know the Capitol is aware of that as well.

“But you can reverse it, can’t you?” Octavia asks, crossing her arms.

“The fear is the most difficult thing to overcome,” Raven sighs. “We’re hardwired to remember fear best.”

“It’s new terrain, but we’ve put together a team,” Plutarch says, putting on a small smile. “I’m optimistic.”

You aren’t.

* * *

District 13 cheers for Coin as she stands before them to give a speech.

“Good evening. Yesterday, I authorized a covert rescue mission inside the Capitol. I am pleased to announce that the Victors have been liberated!”

You quietly close the door of your hospital room so that no one realizes that you’re out of bed.

“Let this day mark a historic change. With the Mockingjay and the Victors beside us, we have sent a clear message to the Capitol, that we will never again endure injustice.”

 _Speak for yourself,_ you think bitterly.

“Today, a day on which we reunited family, friends, and loved ones, let all of Arkadia come together. Not to battle for the amusement of the Capitol, but to join hands in this fight!” 

_But it’s all one big game to you, isn’t it, Snow?_

“Let today be the day we promise never to give up, never to give in until we have made a new Arkadia, where leaders are elected, not imposed upon us. And where the districts are free to share the fruits of their labors and not fight one another for scraps! This new Arkadia is on the horizon, but we must take it for ourselves. The road there leads through the sharp mountains and deep ravines of District 2. There in the heart of Arkadia’s steepest mountain range lies the Capitol’s principal military facility. We can conquer this stronghold because we are one people, one army, one voice. Because today is our new beginning. Today we have freed the Victors. Tomorrow…”

You reach Clarke’s room, see her desperately straining against her restraints, screaming and screaming with murder in her eyes. It’s a one way glass, and you’re suddenly glad she can’t see you.

_She’ll kill me._

“Tomorrow, we free Arkadia.”

* * *

 

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry, I know, I’m sorry,” the nurse says gently as she unfastens your neck brace and pulls it off. You’re sitting shirtless on your hospital bed, your fingers clutching at the edges while Haymitch watches you with concern from his chair.

The nurse gently touches and starts to probe your neck, and you flinch, leaning away.

“I'm sorry,” she says when you lean back towards her. “I know it’s a little tender.”

You swallow and nod.

After a moment, the nurse nods. “Let’s try your voice now.”

You open your mouth, and nothing comes out.

Panic overcomes you—who are you without your fucking voice? What if you never speak again, what if you can never say anything again—?

You huff in determination. “M-my…”

One small word comes out as a whisper, fading into silence.

“It’s okay, take your time,” the nurse says.

“My,” you wheeze, and this time you can hear your own voice a little. “Name… is… Bellamy… Blake.”

You sound a lot like they way you did when you were thirteen years old and your voice was changing, but at least it’s there. You glance at Haymitch. “I want—I want to see her. I wanna talk to her.”

Haymitch sits up, lacing his fingers together. “She needs time,” he states delicately.

* * *

“But,” he says out of the blue, when you’re changed into normal clothes and the two of you are heading down to small control room attached to the little white room Clarke was recently moved to, “But, um, we're trying somethin' new today. She's been calmer with the doctors, but they're strangers to her.”

You push the door open with a sigh. “So what then?” you rasp.

“We're gonna test her response on someone she remembers from home. Someone she trusts,” Haymitch says, then gestures towards Octavia, who’s standing quietly in the corner. “Send her in.”

You can see Octavia cautiously enter the room through the one way glass.

“Hey,” O says to Clarke, who’s staring intently at your sister.

“Octavia,” Clarke says, but it sounds almost like a question.

“How are you feeling?” Octavia asks, coming to stand right by Clarke’s bed.

“She’s too close,” you mumble, still paying attention to their muffled conversation.

“It’s okay,” Haymitch assures you.

“How…” Clarke breathes, sitting up a little. “How’d you get here?”

“We live in District 13 now,” Octavia says, sitting down at the edge of Clarke’s bed. “It’s a real place, Clarke,” she murmurs, taking Clarke’s hand. You hold your breath. “The stories are true. You were rescued.”

She looks around. “My family hasn’t come to see me.”

Beside you, Haymitch bites his lip. Octavia stays silent.

Clarke tilts her head up, her eyes shining with cold realization, the first familiar expression you’ve seen from her since the raw rage in her eyes when she tried to kill you. “There was an attack on Twelve.”

“Yeah,” Octavia says cautiously. 

“My family?”

“Neither the bakery nor the healing practice survived, Clarke. I’m sorry.”

Her expression is stoic at first, completely at odds with the next words out of her mouth.

“It was Bellamy.”

You glance at Haymitch.

“It was because of Bellamy.”

“It wasn’t because of him,” Octavia implores.

“Did he tell you to say that?” Clarke snaps, her calm demeanor melting.

“He didn’t tell me anything.”

“He’s a _liar,_ Octavia,” Clarke spits. “It’s a trick!”

“Clarke, what you’re saying isn’t real,” she replies.

Clarke’s mouth falls open. “He sent you here to talk to me. Oh, god, he knows you’re here.”

“It’s okay—”

“He knows— _YOU CAN’T TRUST HIM!”_ Clarke screams desperately, straining against her restraints. Luckily, Octavia is about as fast as you, and she’s off the bed and a few feet away faster than you can blink.

“He’s a monster,” Clarke snarls. “The Capitol made him to destroy us.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose and turn away from the window.

“Get her out of there,” Haymitch says to Raven.

“Do you understand me?” Clarke asks. “You have to kill him, Octavia. You have to kill him—”

The abrupt silence makes you turn around, and you see Octavia standing over Clarke with a syringe jammed into the latter’s arm. O sighs and pulls the needle out, and even tucks Clarke’s hair behind her ear when Clarke falls lifelessly back onto her pillow.

“It’s just a conditioned response,” Haymitch says quietly. “It’s not her.”

“No,” you mumble quietly. “It’s not.”

* * *

You push the door of the main conference room and glare at Coin until she meets your eye and then turns back to whoever she’s talking to. “Will you excuse us for just a moment?”

She stalks over to you, mouth set in a tight smile. You don’t return the gesture.

“Please, have a seat,” she says, pulling out a chair.

You sit down, lacing your fingers together and placing on the table. “Snow has to pay for what he’s done. I wanna help the rebels in any way that I can.”

Coin opens her mouth then closes it, evidently considering her next words very carefully. “It’s hard to see Clarke this way—”

“That’s not Clarke,” you say automatically. “Send me to the Capitol. I’ll do anything.”

“I can’t—I can’t send you there.”

You frown, leaning back in your chair.

“We can’t get into the Capitol until we’ve got control over District 2. That’s the heart of their military operations.”

“Then send me to 2,” you say. “You want me fire up our troops, call out the damn loyalists? You’ve seen what I can do.”

“I have.”

* * *

Sitting in your armor like clothing that Cinna had apparently designed for you long before you agreed to be the Mockingjay, you stare blankly at the floor of the hovercraft before Echo joins you.

“I saw Clarke before we left,” she says quietly.

“And what did you think?” you ask her.

“Something selfish.”

You turn your head to her. “That—you don’t have to be jealous of her anymore?”

Echo exhales sharply. “That I don’t stand a chance if she doesn’t get better. You’ll never let her go.”

You can’t help but feel like she’s giving you an ultimatum.

_Me or her._

You lean over and kiss her softly, but now, unlike last time, it doesn’t make you feel anything, any sharp desire for her.

It’s wrong, isn’t it? Clarke hasn’t even been in your life for more than two years. You were vaguely aware of her existence before you turned eighteen, but she hadn’t ever mattered before then. And even at first, she’d meant nothing to you.

_But now she means everything to you._

Shouldn’t Echo mean everything, too? Echo is your best friend—she’s been there for every high and low of your life.

And still, Echo is not the one you fell so violently for.

“What’s going through your mind?” she asks when you pull away.

You lower your eyes. “I don’t know.”

“Then that’s like kissing someone who’s drunk,” she mutters. “It doesn’t count.”

“Thirty minutes until touchdown!” Major Byrne calls out. “Prep for landing, wrap it up, cut the chatter. Let’s get going!”

* * *

About twenty minutes before touchdown, you find Echo and Raven gathered around a hologram, Echo watching intently as Raven explains something to her, their positions switching every once in a while.

“—another version of booby-trapping a resource,” Raven says.

“Right.” Echo pulls up an image of a small object. “This bomb’s designed to blind. Smoke clings to the eyes. That’s an application of the hummingbird trap—you scare people so they flee in the direction they think is the one towards safety.”

“It’s a two-tiered explosion then,” Raven says.

“You allow enough people to rush in, help the wounded,” Echo continues, and you feel like throwing up. 

But you aren’t surprised—there’s no doubt about how smart Echo is when it comes to these sort of things. But you’re used to her using these tactics to hunt animals, and it bothers to see her being so tactless with hundreds of innocent lives.

“—get almost everyone in the stronghold in that area, and—”

“A second bomb,” you say, and they both turn to you.

“Right,” Echo says.

“I guess there aren’t any more rules about what you can do to another person,” you spit.

“I don’t think Snow used a rule book when he turned Clarke into a walking bomb,” Echo shoots back.

You don’t speak to her for the rest of the flight.

* * *

 

“Welcome to District 2,” a dark-skinned boy of about your own age with some scruff and a beanie says, clutching a gun. “I’m Corporal Miller. Follow me.”

There are loud blasts in the distance, and everyone looks around.

“Don’t worry,” Miller says. “That’s just how District Two says ‘good morning.’”

* * *

“President Coin, we’re indebted to you for the reinforcements and the Mockingjay,” Indra, the unsmiling commander-general says to the hologram of Coin projected from the table in the small rebel base nestled against the mountain. “But I'm not sure that anyone outside of 2 knows what we've been up against.

“This is the Nut,” Indra declares, producing a three-dimensional model of a base that’s built inside the mountain itself. “The capitol's headquarters for all offensive operations. It's manned by both military and civilian personnel from district 2.”

“And as you can see, it’s essentially untouchable,” Kane says, who’d evidently discussed this with Indra earlier. “The fortress lies so far beneath the bedrock, it’s untouchable.”

“Yesterday, we tried to secure the northeastern gate,” Indra continues. “But military forces countered from higher up and we were forced to retreat.” She relaxes her shoulders slightly, though the gesture itself is distinctly sorrowful. “We took heavy losses.”

“Could we create a decoy?” Kane asks. “Send troops to one gate, launch staggered attacks on another?” 

“Whose troops do you propose as a decoy, Kane?” Indra asks, and it’s clear neither of them are particularly fond of that solution.

 _“We have the Mockingjay,”_ Coin’s tinny voice says from one of the floating screens. _“Don’t underestimate him. We can use him to erode support. She may be able to sway some of the loyalists.”_

“You’ve been underground a long time, Madam Coin,” Indra says solemnly. “This isn't like the rest of Arkadia. Support for the Capitol runs deep here.”

“Then there is no sacrifice too great,” Coin insists. “We need to control the arsenal inside that fortress. Even with every district in this alliance, we are outgunned.”

“I won't commit my people to a ground assault just to pillage weapons,” Indra says sharply.

“Commander Trikru, your people have suffered more than just about anyone else at the hands of the Capitol,” Coin says softly.

“Which is why I won’t condone a mass suicide, Madam President.”

 _“Securing this district is crucial to our success,”_ Coin insists.

“Would it be enough to disable the fortress instead of taking it?” Kane asks, clearly eager to break the tension.

 _“What do you have in mind?_ ” Coin asks.

“You think of it like a wolf den. You're not gonna fight your way in, so you've got two choices. You trap the wolves inside, or you flush them out,” a familiar voice at your side says.

“Echo—?” you start, your eyes widening.

 _“If we can't attack straight on, then couldn't we use our hovercraft to strike around it?”_ Coin sighs.

“We'll use the mountains. We'll hit weak spots in the peaks. We could design the bomb targets in sequence using seismic data. Trigger avalanches. Block all exits, cut off their supplies. You make it impossible for them to launch their hovercraft. Bury them alive.”

“That forfeits any chance of controlling the weaponry,” Kane states, crossing his arms.

“But we’ll be facing a weakened Capitol,” Echo counters.

“This is absolute fucking bullshit,” you say, and everything goes deathly silent. “There are _civilians_ in there. People who are playing the game just like us, people who don’t deserve to die for a crime their system committed.”

 _“Then let’s give them a chance to surrender,”_ Coin says easily, and it really pisses you off, how fast she can adapt and change sides to make herself look better.

“Could use one of the supply tunnels for the evacuees. It's a luxury we weren't given when they firebombed 12,” Echo mutters.

You groan and pinch the bridge of your nose. “There’s gotta be a better way.”

“I suggest we try the avalanche,” Kane states, “but leave the train tunnel alone. Civilians can escape into the square, where our armies will be waiting for their surrender.”

“And we should have every available medic standing by,” you say, and for a moment you think bitterly of Clarke, her gentle hands, all the times you saw her working in the clinic in District Twelve when you walked by. 

_Stop. You have a purpose, and your purpose isn’t to mope about her._

“And if they don’t surrender?” Echo asks, speaking directly to you.

 _“Then we’ll need a compelling voice to convince them,”_ Coin says.

* * *

 

“What’s the goddamn difference, Bellamy?” Echo asks as the two of you scurry down a dark tunnel. “Crushing the enemy in a mine or shooting them out of the sky with one of Raven’s explosive arrows?”

You remember that moment vividly—before the propo at Eight, Raven had given you a new bow and different arrows with different purposes—and you remembered using one of them to shoot a Capitol hovercraft out of the sky after they bombed the hospital.

“That was different, Echo,” you snap. “We were under attack. And that fucking hovercraft wasn’t filled with civilians.”

“It sounds a lot like you’re making excuses, Bellamy,” Echo snarls.

“Yeah, likewise, Echo,” you say, stopping short in front of her. “This is bullshit. You’re turning this into one big fucking cosmic joke. You’re telling me you don’t give a shit about the lives of innocent people?”

“Even if those people are just mopping floors, they’re still helping the enemy,” Echo says, shoving your shoulder as she walks past you. “And if they have to die, I can live with that.” 

“They’re not animals we hunted in the woods,” you say.

“This is war, Bellamy! Sometimes killing isn’t personal. I figured you of all people would know that.”

 _“I, of all people,_ know that it’s _always_ personal,” you snap. “Don’t fucking patronize me, Echo. Don’t act like the Games didn’t matter to me.”

“Don’t worry, Bellamy,” she says wearily. “There will be survivors.”

“If you two are done,” Haymitch says from behind you, and you realize you’ve completely forgotten about him in light of your argument with Echo, “Plutarch wrote a speech for you, Bellamy—”

“I’m not saying that,” you interrupt shortly, remembering the cheesy words on that flimsy piece of paper Plutarch had handed you before you’d left Thirteen.

“Okay, didn’t think so,” he says softly. “But just remember that you’re speaking to everyone. Not just the rebels, but the Capitol, too. The survivors in District Two. We want them to lay down their arms—we want them to remember who the real enemy is.”

You clench your jaw at those words, and you don’t respond until you make it into one of the train tunnels.

“Work with sensitivity and warmth,” Kane adds. “But make it quick. You’re exposed.”

“Right,” you mumble, and the world explodes into the cacophony of a thousand guns being drawn and aimed at you.

* * *

 

There’s yelling for weapons to be put down, confused, sooty faces, maybe a thousand people gathered in that square, the survivors of your attack on the mountain. And then a few people have recognized you, and now they want blood.

“This is Bellamy Blake,” you say loudly and clearly. “Speaking to all the loyalists from the heart of District Two!”

“Bellamy—!” you hear someone, maybe Echo scream, and then there’s a body flying into you, sending you to the ground. And then the cold barrel of a gun being pressed into your forehead.

 _“DROP THE GUN!”_ Echo snarls, holding her own up high.

“Hold your fire!” Kane commands, raising his hands. If anyone moves, you’re dead.

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t shoot you,” the man holding the gun to your head hisses in your ear.

“I can’t,” you say, pulling back a little to look at him better. You hear the gun click, but he doesn’t shoot. Not yet. “I guess that’s the problem, isn’t it? We blew up your mine. You burned my district to the ground. We have every single reason to want to kill each other. So if you want to murder me here, do it. Make Snow happy. I’m _tired_ of killing his slaves for him.”

“I’m not his slave,” the man snaps, shoving the gun harder against your head.

“Well, I am,” you murmur. “That’s why I killed Gustus. And Gustus killed Atom, and Atom killed Lexa. And that went around and around. But who won in the end? Always Snow. So kill me. I’m finished with this game—I’m done being his pawn. Twelve and Two. We don’t have a single fight other than the one your beloved president gave us.”

The man’s expression falters.

“Why _do_ you fight the rebels?” you ask. “They’re your neighbors. Your friends. They’re not the enemy. We are not your enemy.”

And incredulously, he releases, and you stand, turning to face everyone else. “We have _one_ enemy. One man to blame for this. And that is Snow. He corrupts everyone and everything. He told me that I had broken the peace in Arkadia with my actions, but what had been before is not something any of us can call peace. It was fear. He turned the best of us against each other, and he still does.”

The silence is deafening.

“ _Stop_ killing for him,” you say, pouring your heart into those words, hoping desperately that you can convey your emotion well. “Tonight, turn your weapons to the Capitol. Tonight—turn your weapons to Snow.”

There’s a bang and a sickening pain in your lungs, screaming, and everything spirals away from you as the world becomes dark.

* * *

 

“Well, there he is,” you hear, and your eyes snap open to the sound of the curtain around your bed being yanked to the side. “The _Mockingjay,”_ Murphy whispers dramatically. “Oh, that speech you gave,” he says, yanking the morphine drip out of your arm. “Jesus, I still have goosebumps.”

He notices you staring blankly at the beads of blood gathering on the inside of your elbow, and sighs. “You don’t mind, do you? They cut off my supply of morphine.”

Murphy reaches over and flicks the bag, and closes his eyes as the sensation washes over him. His hair is cropped short, making him look older. “There’s this head doctor that comes in every day, trying to help me _adjust_ to reality. Like some guy from this shithole actually knows anything about my reality.”

Now he looks at you, his eyes startlingly soft. “At least twenty times a session he tells me that I’m perfectly safe. That I’m safe from the Capitol, safe from Snow. What about you, Mockingjay? Are you feeling totally safe?”

“Right up until I got shot,” you say.

“Oh, please,” Murphy sighs. “That bullet didn’t even touch you. Cinna saw to that. Of course your armor would be bulletproof.”

You can’t really think of anything to say to that.

“So,” Murphy says, faking brightness. “What are your injuries?”

You try to remember what they told you last time you woke up. “Bruised ribs, bruised lung.”

“I’m surprised they didn’t get you a new one,” Murphy says with mock sympathy. “I’ve got two, do you want one of mine? After all, it is everyone’s job to keep you alive.”

“That why you hate me?” you ask, rolling your eyes.

“Partly,” he replies. “You’re also a little hard to process. With your whole defender of the hopeless, badass moral compass act. Even though it isn’t an act at all, which makes it so much more unbearable.”

“Aw, Murphy,” you say, smirking. “You think I’m badass?”

“That tacky romance drama was even worse,” Murphy continues as if he hasn’t heard you. “Feel free to take any and all of this personally.”

“You should’ve been the Mockingjay, then,” you mutter. “Nobody else would tell you what to say.”

“Yeah, but the people don’t like me,” he says with a tight smile.

“They’re afraid of you.”

“Here, maybe. But in the Capitol, you’re the only thing they’re afraid of, Bellamy.”

Murphy sees and reaches for the objects on the table next to your bed—Clarke’s pearl, the locket Effie has given her, a picture of Octavia grinning. He finally takes the pearl, holding it up to the light.

“They messed us up pretty good, didn’t they?” he asks quietly, and suddenly all you can do is nod because your voice can’t seem to work anymore.

* * *

“We showed her footage of your speech in Two. She had real memories of you—I saw the look on her face when you got shot,” Haymitch says to you, watching idly as the nurse changed your bandages and then tosses you a shirt.

“That doesn’t mean I’m going in there,” you say.

“She’s strapped down, Bellamy, she can’t hurt you—”

“No,” you say firmly. “This is different, Haymitch. I don’t want to.”

“What you want doesn’t matter,” Haymitch snaps. “This is for Clarke. What’s the harm in trying?”

* * *

 

“I saw you die” are the first words out of her lips when you open the door.

It’s Clarke—almost. The impassive look on her face is a familiar one—but not a look she ever gave you.

“You look terrible,” she says, and you try not to pretend you heard concern in her voice.

“You’ve looked better,” you mutter, maintaining a safe distance from her bed.

“That’s not even remotely nice,” she says indignantly.

“I was never the nice one,” you say quietly. “You were.”

“When I saw you die,” Clarke says quietly, but not softly. “I remembered something. The bread. I burned it on purpose—for you.”

“Like I said,” you mumble. “You were kind.”

“That’s how you justify the fact that I would’ve taken a beating from my mother for you,” she says. 

“People said you loved me,” you whisper, suddenly unable to look at her because even though this might’ve been general knowledge by now, it truly hits you at that moment, the magnitude of how much you loved each other.

“Did people say you love me?” she asks, and her voice is too casual, too flippant for such a heavy topic.

“Yeah,” you mumble. “And they also said that’s why Snow hurt you. To torture me.”

“Snow says that everything that comes out of your mouth is a lie,” she spits, and you think you can hear your heart crack, splintering and shattering into a thousand jagged pieces.

But you don’t answer this statement—you can’t possibly think of anything else to say to her.

“All I know now is,” Clarke starts, “I would’ve saved myself a lot of trouble if I hadn’t given you anything.”

* * *

“I think the only thing left to say is ‘thank you,’” Coin says with a smile, reaching forward and placing a firm hand on your shoulder.

“I need to be in the Capitol,” you say. Ever since your talk with Clarke, you’ve gone from upset to angry, desperate to spill some blood to compensate for what Snow’s done. Desperate to see the light leave his eyes—make him pay for taking one of the last people you could rely on.

“No, you’ve done your job,” Coin insists, clearly trying to sound motherly or understanding, but still obviously not succeeding. “You’ve been _very_ successful as the Mockingjay, and now we want you to rest. To heal.”

“The last time the rebels saw me, I was lying on the ground,” you counter.

“Bellamy, we will not let this momentum go to waste,” she sighs. “We’ll shoot more people here in Thirteen, showing that you’re alive.”

“I should be with the troops, Madam President,” you declare, keeping your voice even. “I’m not a toy soldier, and you know I have the same goals as you in this war.”

The statement in itself is not entirely true, but you have to try.

“It will be like you’re on the front lines,” Coin says, speaking to you as if you’re a precocious child. “And as far as the other soldiers know, you survived a bullet to the heart. I think they’ll understand why you can’t join them.”

You cross your arms and lean back, still waiting for the real reason she’s not allowing you to go. But the president doesn’t reveal this, and adopts the expression of one trying to pacify a toddler. “We’ll fly you in for the surrender,” she assures you. “We’ll need you for the ceremony—you’re very valuable to us.”

You hold your tongue for ten seconds, then twenty.

“I’ll do whatever you need me to do,” you say finally.

* * *

“From this day forth, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, I promise to love and cherish you every day. I, Derrick Shipton, take you, Luna Floukru, as my wife from this day forth.”

“Together or apart,” Luna finishes. “We will always be united…”

“You may kiss the bride.”

You find yourself idly wondering what your wedding would’ve been like if you hadn’t been a tribute in the Quarter Quell. Bitter, maybe—you know Clarke didn’t want to get married. You know she didn’t want to be tied to this life forever.

But then you remember her in her wedding dress, smiling softly at you, and your heart aches with longing.

“Saw Clarke again, didn’t you?” Murphy asks, sidling up to you. The two of you stand at the edge of the ceremony, and you think you see him staring longingly at Raven, who is currently spinning Octavia around, both of them smiling from ear to ear. “Did you tell her hi for me? We’re old friends, you know. Adjoining cells in the Capitol. Real familiar with the sounds of each other’s screams.”

“I’m going to kill Snow,” you say quietly.

Murphy falls silent, staring blankly at you.

“No more videos,” you murmur. “No more lies. No more games. And I want to be looking into his eyes when I kill him. I want him to see.”

Murphy is quiet, before letting out a humorless chuckle. “Now you’re talking.”

“Think you could find a way into the Capitol when everyone’s looking the other way?” you ask him.

“I hear the medics talking,” he says conversationally. “They’re shipping supplies to the front lines from Hangar Two at about midnight. Medicine and painkillers. I was gonna go steal some, but…” He turns and takes your arm, his touch surprisingly gentle. “I suppose I could cover for you.”

You lay a hand over his own, but for the first time, you begin to doubt your plan just a little. It’s evident on your face, apparently, for Murphy gives your fingers a squeeze. “Anybody can betray anybody. Anybody can kill anybody. Even a president, Bellamy. You just have to be willing to sacrifice yourself to do it.”

“Is that why you won’t do anything like that?” you ask, smiling weakly.

“Yeah, duh,” Murphy says, removing his arm and jerking his chin towards Octavia. “Go. Don’t you want Snow to see you dance?”

“I want him to see you, too. Bust out some moves, Murphy,” you say.

“Right,” he says. “Hey, Raven! Wait for me!”

Meanwhile, you go and take Octavia’s hands, and the two of you dance a little before she pulls you into a hug, as if she somehow already knows what you plan to do.

“I love you, O,” you say quietly into her hair.

“I love you too, big brother,” she replies, and suddenly you want nothing more than to tell her where you’re gonna go.

But you can’t. You can’t leave her with the possibility that you might not come back at all.

So you swallow your words and your goodbyes, and you try to pretend that you'll see her again.

* * *

You can feel the hovercraft tough the ground sometime early in the morning, judging by the shade of the sky you see through the small window. You’ve been sitting hidden behind a crate of medicine, and you make sure your good is secure as you step off the hovercraft.

You only take it off when you reach the military units, and the muttering starts immediately.

“That’s him. That’s Bellamy Blake.”

“The Mockingjay.”

“Hey,” Echo says, appearing out of nowhere and grabbing your shoulder. “I thought you were still in the hospital.”

“I was,” you say evasively, running a hand through your hair.

“I’m Commander Trikru from District Eight!” Indra says loudly, bringing all the military units to attention. “I’m a soldier, like all of you, so here’s what I know.”

Her piercing eyes sweep the crowd, lingering a second longer on you before she continues. “For the first time in our lifetimes, there is unity between the thirteen districts. We are standing here, and we stand together. From what I see here—we’ve already made history. But history does not wait for us. History won’t pause for celebrations. We’re facing an enemy that won’t ever change his ways, an enemy that will not surrender. Snow has pulled back Peacekeepers to fortify the center of the city. He’s evacuating civilians from the outer blocks. They’ll be confused and desperate, which is why you’re under orders not to target them. We’ll be deploying medical brigades to help anyone in need. We’ll show them who we are—we’ll show them that we’re better.”

“Did Coin send you?” Echo asks quietly.

You glance at her, but you don’t answer.

“To slow our progress,” Indra continues. “Snow built a lethal minefield of traps called pods. The sadistic inventions of Gamemakers meant to make sport of our deaths. If our armies make it past peacekeepers and other defenses, we'll converge in the center of the city at Snow's mansion, where we won't just unlock his gates, but unshackle all of Arkadia. If we die, let it be for a cause and not a spectacle.

“If we succeed, let it be for all of Arkadia, and let it be forever. Yes, you've already made history. But the future, our future, starts tomorrow at dawn, when we march together into the Capitol.”

* * *

“Squad 100!” Kane calls, and to your immense surprise, he motions for you to join the unit.

“Looks like you’ve got your meals covered,” Echo says, peeking into your backpack.

“Just trying to be prepared,” you mumble.

“Don’t lie to me,” Echo says, grabbing your arm. “We've been hunting together all our lives. I know when you're gonna go off on your own. You gonna leave me behind, too?”

You jerk your arm away from her grip and you glare at her, and you’re reminded of billions of times you’ve done this since you were both just children, entire wars fought between your eyes, her hazel hurricanes and your brown cyclones.

“As your fellow soldier, I suggest that you stay with your unit. But I couldn't stop you if you wanted to come,” you murmur, a silent request. _Come with me. Stay with me._

“Azgeda! Blake! Come meet your new unit!” a sullen looking woman calls, and you both tear your gazes away from each other.

“I'm Lieutenant Diana Sydney, and I wanna introduce you to your squad,” the woman says. “This is second Lieutenant Roan White, best sharpshooter in Arkadia. And this is Corporal Miller.”

“Luna?” you ask, catching a glimpse of wild auburn curls, and the two of you collide into each other, your vision completely overtaken by her hair. “Are you with us?” you ask, pulling back.

“Looks like it,” she says, smiling softly.

“That was a short honeymoon,” you sigh.

“Yeah, well, I wanted to come here and Derrick had to take care of Adria,” she says quietly.

“Adria?” you ask. “Who’s…?”

“Oh, I…” Luna trails off, looking sheepish. “That’s our daughter.”

“Hold the fuck up,” you say. “You had a daughter this whole time and you didn’t tell me?”

“She’s not biologically ours,” Luna says. “Adopted after she lost her parents in an epidemic in Four a few years ago. But she looks like a total combination of the two of us, so… she could be mistaken as ours.”

“I… wow,” you say. “That’s nice.”

“I’m just glad she made it to Thirteen after the Quarter Quell,” Luna says. “I didn’t wanna leave her, but I feel like I should be part of this, too.”

“Gather ‘round,” Diana Sydney says sharply. 

“Squad 100,” Kane says. “You’re my unit. Diana Sydney is my second in command. Each one of you is elite in some form of combat. But we are a non-combat unit. So we'll be following days behind the front-line troops. You're to be the onscreen faces of the invasion. “

_Great. Next time you see Coin, you’re going to fucking kill her._

“‘The Star Squad,’” Kane continues. “It's been decided that you're most effective when seen by the masses.”

“So, we’re not fighting?” Echo asks, crossing her arms.

“You'll do whatever you're ordered to do, soldier. It's not your job to ask questions,” Sydney says, and a muscle in Echo’s jaw ticks. “Yes, ma’am,” she mutters.

“Our instructions are to shoot propaganda footage on the battle-scarred streets of the Capitol,” Kane explains. “You were handpicked to intimidate their forces. And inspire surrenders. Even though we'll be working on abandoned streets miles behind the front lines, I guarantee you, wherever they put us, it will not be safe. This is a war zone. It is likely that we'll encounter both active pods and Peacekeepers. You're considered high-value targets to the Capitol. In the event of capture, you'll be given a nightlock pill. A poison that acts immediately. Lieutenant Sydney, would you do the honors?”

Sydney hands out a sleek black pill and points out the small slot on the shoulders of your gear where it goes. Close enough to bite if you’re desperate enough.

“I've already briefed you on the pods,” Kane declares. “They are on every block. Our unit has been given a Holo, a database that contains a detailed map of the Capitol and a list of every known pod. These pods can trigger anything from bombs to traps to mutts. We cannot move without this device. There's no guarantee that our database is complete. There could be new pods that we're not aware of. Because we don't want the Gamemakers to know we have this intel, it has a self-destruct on it. You flip this switch, say "nightlock" three times, and it blows itself and anything within a 10-foot radius. Stay within our unit. Even with the Holo, it is likely that new pods have been set. Whatever they contain, they are meant to kill you.”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Luna says, smirking softly next to you. “Welcome to the 76th Hunger Games.”

* * *

In the end, you and Echo decide that you need to get that Holo if you guys are gonna break away from the group and make it to Snow’s mansion. But that plan involves having to betray Kane’s trust, which is something neither of you are pleased about.

After a long day of exploding buildings and guns, traps your unit has narrowly avoided, all of you are sitting in a deserted building.

“We need to get it off of him while he’s sleeping,” Echo says quietly. “Problem is, he doesn’t ever seem to sleep.”

“Relax,” you say. “Sun hasn’t even set yet.”

“Let’s make sure we’re on the same watch tonight, then.”

“We’ve got a truck coming in from the south,” Sydney calls.

“Peacekeepers?” Luna asks.

Sydney has a hurried and hushed conversation with someone on the radio, then shakes her head. “Stand down. It’s friendly.”

The truck comes to a stop, and then the door opens. And with that, your whole world comes into sharper focus, spinning and spinning, a beautiful and terrible disaster.

* * *

“My name is Clarke Griffin. My home is District Twelve.” 

You hear her whisper the words as she walks slowly and calmly towards you, and you don’t even hesitate to raise your bow and aim an arrow at her head. You know the shot would be clean, and you know she wouldn’t suffer.

She’s wearing the same gear as your whole unit, but her hair is hanging loose around her shoulder unlike the other women in your unit. Jasper and Cressida stiffen on the other side of the room.

Her eyes meet yours, and it’s _her._ Not the Clarke Griffin you knew, but Clarke Griffin. The flashes of blonde hair you caught in the square before you ever even knew her, her brilliant smile that was meant for no one except Wells Jaha, her best friend. Clarke Griffin, the princess at the top of the tower, with her eyes like blue ice. Clarke, with none of the warmth you recognize. Just Clarke Griffin, not your Clarke.

“Hold up,” Echo says. “Everyone, relax.”

You reluctantly lower your bow.

_What does it mean? Why is she here?_

Here’s the official explanation; they want her here to show Snow that she’s on our side now. That she’s a symbol of choosing the right side in the end.

But you understand the truer, darker implications of it now—you understand that the only thing that could truly guarantee full support for Coin and the uprising is your death, and you understand that it’s exactly why Coin sent her. 

Despite the image, you know Clarke isn’t completely in control of herself—you can still comprehend her body language and conclude that easily. At any moment, Clarke could snap, and kill you.

_She could try. You’re not weaker than her._

Yes, physically, you could overpower her if she tried anything. But how would you handle the mental implications of that? You could, but would you?

* * *

“If it came down to it,” Kane asks you the next morning, the two of you surrounded by a cold breeze. “Would you shoot her?”

“I wouldn’t be shooting Clarke,” you answer. “I’d be shooting a Capitol soldier.”

“I'm not sure that kind of a comment recommends you for the job, either, soldier,” Kane sighs, but yells at Sydney to put you in the rotation for watching Clarke anyway.

“She's gonna try to kill me,” you say quietly. “Especially with all this going on. It's gonna set her off.”

“We'll keep her contained,” Kane assures you, and the statement sounds so wrong. Contain Clarke?

_When protecting each other from the world turn into protecting myself and the world from you?_

Even if you allowed yourself to entertain a vaguely optimistic future where all of this was over, you don’t know if Clarke would ever be the same again. Whether it was the Games, or what Snow did, something essential and important has shattered, and you don’t know if you’ll be enough to help her heal it.

“Why would Coin do this?” you ask quietly.

“Here's all I know. It was Clarke that she wanted rescued from the arena. She never liked you. She doesn't like anybody or anything she can't control.”

You almost laugh at that. Coin wouldn’t have stood a chance with Clarke either.

“So she would try to kill me?” you ask.

“She'd deny it, but…” Kane trails off.

“But what?” you press.

“One way or another, this war is gonna come to an end. They promised a free election. Maybe she's starting to see you as a threat.”

You shake your head. “Nobody would see me as a leader.”

“But you'd throw your support to someone. Would it be her?” he asks, and you hesitate, words failing you. Kane nods as if he was expecting that reaction. “If your immediate answer isn't ‘yes,’ then you're dangerous. She doesn't need you as a rallying cry anymore.”

_Great. This is wonderful._

“These propos can be done without you. There's only one thing you could do now to add more fire to this rebellion.”

You nod, feeling as if Kane had read your mind earlier. “Die.”

“That's not gonna happen under my watch, Bellamy. I'm planning for you to have a long life.”

“Why?” you ask. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“Because you've earned it,” Kane says, touching your shoulder.

* * *

“We've been here before, you know,” Clarke says that night.

“Hmm?” you ask, your tone almost conversational.

“That look. I've seen that look. You're trying to decide whether or not you should kill me.”

“I never wanted to kill you,” you mumble. No, not even in your first Games. You truly had no genuine intention of killing her. “And that’s not what I’m doing.”

“I saw it with my own eyes. In the first Games,” she says.

“In the first Games, I thought you were trying to help the Careers kill me. After that, I always saw you as an ally,” you sigh.

“Friend,” she says quietly. “Lover. Victor. Fiance. Enemy. Target. _Mutt._ And now ally?”

She looks at you, her gaze so heartbreakingly confused, so much sorrow and rage in her eyes. “I’ll add that to the list of words I use to try and figure you out.”

You long to touch her, to reach for her hand or her shoulder, to remind her that you are here, and you are here for her. 

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly. “I can’t tell what’s real or made up anymore.”

“Then ask,” Luna says. “That’s what Derrick does.”

“Who do I ask?” Clarke inquires a little helplessly.

“Us,” Kane says. “We’re your new unit.”

“Um,” Clarke starts, then turns back to you. “Your favorite color is green. Real or not real?”

_Green like the forests and blue like her eyes._

“Yeah. That’s real,” you say, trying to swallow the lump in your throat. “Yours is gold, like the sun as it starts to set.”

“Thank you,” she says quietly, her eyes falling shut as if she’s trying to picture the color in her mind.

“You were a healer, and your parents ran a bakery alongside the clinic,” you continue, unable to stop yourself. “You like to sleep with the windows open. You can draw anything you see. You dyed streaks of your hair pink with berries when you were eight. You know how to braid your own hair, and you hate coffee, and you....” Your voice falters. “You like to double-knot your shoelaces.”

Abruptly, you stand, unable to bear it anymore. “I need some air.”

You walk towards the shattered window, and Echo joins you after a moment.

“I guess we’re not leaving anymore,” Echo sighs.

“We’re not going anywhere without that Holo, if that’s what you mean.”

* * *

You knew this would happen.

Your unit had been warned that there could be pods that weren’t already on the system, but it still scares all of you when there’s a large explosion as you’re getting ready to film a propo.

In the end, it’s Kane’s body on the ground, viscous blood everywhere, on your hands, on his hands, everywhere.

“Grab the tourniquets from the bag!” Clarke yells, though she looks a bit like she’s going to slam her own head into a wall. “Squeeze his legs!”

“Kane, hey, Kane,” you whisper, cradling his head. “Kane, look at me. Kane.”

“The Holo,” Kane says weakly. _“The Holo.”_

You dig it out of his pack and he gingerly raises his arms and takes it from you. 

“Unfit for command,” he says to the screen. “Transfer primary security clearance…” He looks at you. “Say your name.”

“Bellamy Blake,” you say. “What did you just do?”

“Bellamy, don’t trust them,” Kane says. “Do better than you did yesterday. Do what you came to do. Kill Clarke if you have to.” 

He stares for a long time at nothing at all, and you shake him a little. “Kane?” Kane!”

_No. No. No. He can’t be gone. He doesn’t deserve to be gone._

“He’s gone,” Echo says from behind you, grabbing your arm. “Bellamy, he’s gone.”

* * *

There’s tar pouring in from everywhere, and if anyone gets stuck in it, they’ll never come out.

And then Clarke loses control.

There’s a tangle of limbs, and then Clarke is shoving Roan into the tar, and he’s gone, gone, dead, dead, dead. There’s screaming for Clarke to be restrained, and Clarke reaches for you too until Luna grabs her from behind and holds her tight. Your whole unit, or whatever’s left of it, runs and runs, filing through an unlocked door and upstairs, all the way to the top level.

“Blake, give me the Holo,” Sydney commands, when your unit is standing in a polished, empty apartment, a temporary base.

You don’t move.

“Blake, what did I just say? The Holo. Come on, let’s go.”

“Kane gave it to me,” you say firmly.

“What?”

“He’s right,” Clarke says, currently clutching her hair, her eyes shut tight.

“Yeah.” Echo adds. “He did. He transferred security clearance to Bellamy. I saw it.”

“And why would he do that?” Sydney asks.

“Because I’m on special orders from President Coin,” you say, and Echo’s head snaps to face you.

“To do what?” Sydney snaps.

“To assassinate President Snow,” you state, and you hear Echo inhale sharply beside you. You haven’t told her this part of your ultimate plan.

“I don’t believe that for one second,” Sydney sneers. “As your new unit commander, I order you to transfer security clearance to me now.”

“I can’t do that.”

There’s familiar clicking, and then Sydney’s gun is trained on you, and Echo’s and Luna’s guns are aimed at Sydney.

“Let’s not lose our heads here,” Luna says slowly, glancing once at Clarke. She wasn’t given a gun, which is probably a good thing at the moment.

“Give me that Holo, then,” Sydney commands.

“She’s telling the truth,” Cressida says suddenly. “Plutarch Heavensbee wants it televised. He thinks if we could film the Mockingjay assassinating Snow, it'll make the Capitol surrender before the casualties get too high.”

You try not to look relieved, and hold Sydney’s gaze.

“While we’re arguing,” Echo says testily. “There are about a hundred Peacekeepers on their way.”

“Kane said that you’d help me when the time comes,” you lie, still refusing to look away from Sydney. There’s a tense silence, then a collective exhale seems to ripple through the room.

“Alright, soldier,” Sydney acquiesces. “Holo’s yours.”

* * *

You’re forced to leave the two twins in your unit, because one of them is injured so badly.

 _They’ll come for you,_ your unit assures them.

All the cameras are covered in tar, so the Capitol won’t see you, not with the camera’s that are left in the square.

As soon as the rest of your unit is thirty feet from the building, and hidden from the Peacekeepers that have arrived, it explodes.

* * *

_“I'm Caesar Flickerman. Here with our continuing coverage of the defense of the Capitol. Today, as our peacekeepers valiantly hold off the rebels, our story takes a surprising twist. Bellamy Blake, our once favorite son, has infiltrated the city with some of the Victors, whose names are all too familiar. Luna Floukru and Clarke Griffin. Hmm. Clearly, some alliances don't last forever. Take a look at what happened just a moment ago, when our Peacekeepers cornered Bellamy Blake and his band of foolish rebels. Whatever arrogance brought this treacherous boy back to us, you are about to witness a great victory, not only for the Capitol, but for Arkadia.”_

There’s fire and glass and concrete, the temporary base going up in flames.

_“So there you have it. Bellamy Blake, the boy on fire, a man who inspired so much violence, seems to have met a violent end himself. Stay tuned for more information. Caesar Flickerman. Thank you.”_

* * *

“So what do we do, now that we’re dead?” Echo asks. Your unit is in another empty apartment, far from the tar square.

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Clarke says softly. “You have to kill me.”

There’s deafening silence.

“I’m a liability,” she continues, her voice startlingly calm. “Bellamy’s right. I am a Capitol soldier. A mutt. And it's only a matter of time before I snap again. I'm not in control. I need a nightlock pill, so I can die when I need to.”

“If it gets to that point, I'll kill you myself,” you say, and for the first time in a long time, understanding passes between the two of you.

* * *

On the television, there’s a broadcast of Snow insulting the shit out of you, praising your death, and you smile despite yourself. But then the broadcast is interrupted, and Alma Coin’s face fills the screen.

_“I am President Alma Coin, leader of the rebellion. I have interrupted a broadcast from your president in which he attempted to defame a brave young man. ‘A face picked from the masses,’ he called him. As if a leader, a true leader, could be anything else. I had the privilege of knowing a small-town boy from the Seam in District 12 who survived the Hunger Games and the Quarter Quell and rose up and turned a nation of slaves into an army!”_

Coin pauses, looking away as if she’s getting choked up with emotion, but you can still see through the cracks in the foundation. But she is a good actress, you’ll give her that.

 _“Dead or alive, Bellamy Blake will remain the face of this revolution,”_ Coin continues. _“He will not have died for nothing.”_

“I had no idea I meant so much to her,” you say impassively.

_“His vision and ours will be realized. A free Arkadia with self-determination for all. And in his memory, we will all find the strength to rid Arkadia of its oppressors. Thank you. And be safe.”_

* * *

In the end, your unit decides to go underground, seeing as there are pods every ten steps on the streets and on the rooftops as well. Jasper used to work sanitation, so he knows the tunnels well. He doesn’t seem too thrilled about it, though.

You guys are resting a little in a secluded alcove, and you find yourself next to Clarke, shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip. Despite all that’s happened, her body and her proximity feels familiar and comforting, and you almost let your head drop onto her shoulder.

“You know, the Capitol, they used tracker jacker venom on me,” Clarke says softly.

“That’s what the doctors in Thirteen said,” you reply.

“You were stung once, too. Real or not real?”

“Real.”

“When they used the venom on me, they would show me pictures of my life,” she says. “But some weren't real. They changed them. At first, they all... They all blurred together. But now... now I can sort them out a little. Like the ones that they changed, they have this quality... It's like they're shiny. They've been glossed over.”

“You should rest,” you murmur.

“You're still trying to protect me. Real or not real?”

“Real,” you breathe. “Because that’s what you and I do. We keep each other alive. You’re the head, and I’m the heart.”

She meets your gaze and for the first time in a long time there’s recognition in her eyes, an expression almost like longing, as if she recognizes your need for her and she feels the same. Almost, almost, Bellamy and Clarke just the way they should be.

And then the mutts come.

* * *

At some point while you run, Luna falls behind to hold the alligator-human hybrid things back, but it’s too much, too fast, and even someone as skilled as Luna cannot hold all of them off. You scream for her, your friend, your tether, like the dream-catchers they used to sell in the market in Twelve, taking all the nightmares and turning them into something beautiful, something to remember, something to understand, making them less scarier, reminding you that she was there. Luna, Luna, Luna, you yell, over and over.

“Go!” she screams back at you, her voice filled with pain.

Pain.

Luna doesn’t deserve to die in pain.

You take out the Holo, holding it out in front of you.

“Nightlock, nightlock, nightlock,” you sniffle, and you drop it into the fray, watching it explode into a thousand shades of red and orange and gold.

* * *

As you’re running, your unit finds itself in an underground parking garage, and there are beams of light coming down from random light recesses, vaporizing anyone caught in the column. You and Clarke weave in and out of them, but then she stops, grabbing her face.

“Hey, hey! Clarke!” you yell, running back to her and grabbing her hands. “You have to come with me!”

“I can’t!” she sobs. “I can’t do this, I’m a weapon, I’m a toxin, I’ll kill you all, I can’t keep control!”

“Yes, you can!” you urge, cupping her face. “Look at me, Clarke!”

You pull her into a searing kiss, opening your mouth and your heart to her, kissing her quickly yet urgently.

“There’s only way we do this,” you say, pulling back and resting your forehead against hers. “Together.”

Her eyes are dazed, but then they come back into focus. “Together.”

* * *

Diana Sydney dies. Jasper Jordan dies.

It’s not fair. It’s not fair.

Hidden away with the help of stylist who was secretly part of the Resistance, you have to confess.

“I made it up,” you choke out. “All of it. There is no special mission from Coin. There's only my plan. Everyone that's dead is dead because of me. I lied.”

“We knew,” Cressida says somberly.

You look up.

“And those soldiers from Thirteen? They knew, too. Do you really believe that Sydney thought you had orders from Coin? She trusted Kane and he clearly wanted you to go on.”

“I never meant for this to happen,” you mumble. “I failed. I... I killed them. I killed Luna, and Kane, and Jasper, and everyone else. I'm sorry, Cressida. I'm so sorry.”

“What do all those deaths mean? They mean that our lives were never ours,” Echo says. “There was no real life because we didn't have any choice. Our lives belong to Snow and our deaths do, too. But if you kill him, Bellamy... If you end all of this, all those deaths, they mean something. Cinna, Kane, Jasper, Sydney, Luna. They chose this. They chose you.”

_But that’s the story, isn’t it? People die if they choose you._

* * *

“I can’t sleep,” Echo says to Clarke a while later. You’re supposed to be asleep, and you pretend to do so, but you lie awake listening to their conversation.

“Yeah, I haven't slept in days, either,” Clarke says quietly.

“I should’ve volunteered,” Echo sighs. “I should've volunteered to take your place in the first Games.”

“You couldn’t have,” Clarke says. “He never would have forgiven you. He needed you to be there and take care of his family and you did. He can't lose you.”

“He really loves you,” Echo pushes, her tone weary and sad. “And the way he kissed you in the Quarter Quell. He never kissed me like that.”

“That was just him putting on a show,” Clarke mutters.

“No. No, you won him over. You gave up everything for her,” Echo sighs, lapsing into silence for a bit before she sleeps again. “Well, it's not gonna be an issue much longer. I doubt all three of us are gonna make it out of this. And if we do, then it's his problem whom to choose, right?”

“I suppose,” Clarke says, sounding uncomfortable with the subject.

“But I do know,” Echo says, “that Bellamy will choose whoever he thinks he can’t live without.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, tightly enough for it to hurt and for you to see blotches and spots on the backs of your eyelids, trying to drown everything else out, trying to ignore the truth in Echo’s bitter words.

* * *

“Bell, let me come with you,” Clarke says, touching your arm. “I can be a good distraction. They know my face.”

“No,” you say firmly, laying a hand on her shoulder. “I’m not losing you again. I need you.”

“Then give me a nightlock pill,” she urges. “I can’t go back there.”

You pause for a moment before reaching into your bag and withdrawing a spare pill.

“Stay alive,” you murmur.

“If I see you again, it's gonna be a different world,” she promises.

“You ready, Bellamy?” Echo calls from the door.

“Yeah,” you say, leaning forward and kissing Clarke on the cheek. “I’m ready.”

* * *

_“By order of President Snow, all residents must proceed to the presidential estate. Please, continue to move forward in a calm and orderly fashion. Additional food, medicine and clothing will be provided upon arrival.”_

The message echoes again and again as you and Echo join the mass moving slowly towards the estate. More than once, you spot someone who’s injured, or clearly lost, and you ache to help them, but Echo tells you to keep moving.

You have to keep moving. Or all of this will be for nothing.

You reach the estate, but then you recognize the gear issued from Thirteen, and then the screaming starts.

“Rebels! It’s the rebels!”

_“Bring your children forward. The gates will open momentarily.”_

Children being pulled away from their parents by Peacekeepers, screaming and screaming. It makes everything in your body hurt.

You look up to see parachutes descending, identical to the ones they used in the Games. 

“Gifts!”

“Medic! Medic!”

There’s a familiar whirl of dark hair and pale skin, and you run towards the kids. “O? Octavia!”

Octavia turns around, and she starts to run towards you, your name half formed on her lips just as a parachute explodes at her feet, throwing you back and setting your clothes on fire, and your only wish in that moment is to _die._

* * *

“I need you to lie back,” Aurora Blake says softly, when you sit bolt upright. “Bellamy. _Bellamy.”_

“Mom,” you choke out.

“You're okay. Everything's gonna be okay. Fight was over after the Capitol dropped those bombs to defend the palace. The rebels walked right in.”

You reach up to touch your chest, but Mom swats your hand away. “Don't, Bellamy. The ointment's working.”

You feel tears start to well up in your eyes.

_Octavia._

_My sister, my responsibility._

“Everybody felt it,” Mom says quietly. “Peacekeepers, palace guards. They had kids in there, too. It was... it was over after that.”

_My sister, my responsibility._

You want to die.

* * *

“I’m sorry, sir, you can’t go in there,” a Peacekeeper says as you try to enter the greenhouse.

“Let her in,” Snow calls. “On my authority.”

You shove the guard out of your way and step in, suddenly overwhelmed by the horrible aroma of the roses. Snow sits there, handcuffed to his wheelchair.

You slow your steps, taking in all the flowers around you. You find yourself reaching for a red rose, a vicious, bloody shade.

“That’s a nice one,” Snow says conversationally. The colors are lovely, of course. But nothing says perfection like white.”

Unbidden, an image of Clarke in her white clothes while she was in the Capitol after the Quarter Quell rises up in your head, and you resist the urge to slit Snow’s throat with a thorn.

“I was hoping you'd find your way here,” he continues, and you look up. “There are so many things we should discuss. But I have a feeling your visit will be brief, so first things first. I wanted to tell you how very sorry I am about your sister.”

_My responsibility. My responsibility._

“So wasteful,” he continues, looking almost genuinely sad. “So unnecessary. Anyone could see the game was over by that point. In fact, I was just about to issue an official surrender when they released those parachutes.”

 _“You_ released those parachutes,” you snarl, your hands trembling.

“You really think I gave the order? We both know I'm not above killing children. But I'm not wasteful. I take life for specific reasons. And there was no reason for me to destroy a pen full of Capitol children.”

_Liar. He’s a goddamn liar._

“I must concede,” Snow starts, “it was a masterful move on Coin's part. The idea that I was bombing our own helpless children to hold back the rebels... It turned the last of my guards against me. There was no resistance left inside the Capitol or the mansion. Do you know it aired live? There's a particular savvy in that, isn't there?” He smiles at this, as if it was all a pleasant twist to a story he’d been reading. “I'm sure she wasn't gunning for your sister, but these things happen in war. My failure was in being so slow to grasp coin's plan. She let the Capitol and the districts destroy one another. Then she stepped in to take power with 13's arsenal. Oh, make no mistake, she intends to take my place now. But I've been watching you. And you have been watching me. And I’m afraid we’ve both been played for fools.”

“I don’t believe you,” you say quietly.

“Bellamy,” Snow sighs softly. “I thought we had finally agreed not to lie to each other.”

* * *

“President Coin asked to see you,” Echo says quietly, standing in the room you currently have in the Presidential Estate.

“You never came to see me,” you tell her, and she looks away.

“I wanted to, but…”

She trails off, and you speak again. “Was it ours?”

“Was what ours?”

“The bombs. The delayed explosions. The trap. The ploy to draw more people in. Was it _you,_ Echo?”

She doesn’t answer.

“Because it sounds an awful lot like something you would’ve done,” you say, your voice breaking and faltering.

“I don’t know,” Echo says quietly, but both of you know that you can see right through the lie. “All I know is that I was supposed to take care of your family. Now I'm sorry I couldn't. You can't protect anyone in an arena.”

“Get out,” you say.

“Bellamy, _please,”_ Echo says, walking forward and touching your arm. There are tears in her eyes, and it almost startles you, almost makes you feel something, because you’ve rarely ever seen Echo cry.

_You’re the reason she’s gone._

_My sister, my favorite person in the world._

_My sister, my responsibility._

_It’s your fault._

“Goodbye, Echo,” you say quietly, before pushing past her and heading to the meeting room.

* * *

“What is this?” you ask, staring at the odd assortment of people at the table. It’s Coin, Derrick, Murphy, Clarke, Haymitch, Monty, and Raven.

“The remaining Victors,” Coin says. “Come, join us.”

You settle into a seat between Clarke and Raven.

“I have invited you all here for several reasons, but first, I have an announcement. I have taken the burden and the honor of declaring myself interim president of Arkadia.”

You fight the urge to roll your eyes. Of course she is.

“Interim?” Haymitch asks, crossing his arms. “Exactly how long is that interim?”

“We have no way of knowing for certain,” Coin states delicately. “But it's clear that people are far too emotional right now to make a rational decision.”

You don’t miss the way she glances at you as she says this.

“We’ll plan an election when the time is right,” she continues. “But I have called you here for a far more important vote. A symbolic vote. This afternoon, we will execute Snow. Hundreds of his accomplices also await their deaths. Capitol officials, Peacekeepers, torturers, Gamemakers. But the danger is, once we begin, the rebels will not stop calling for retribution. Thirst for blood is a difficult urge to satisfy. So I offer an alternative plan. Majority of four may approve it. No one may abstain. The proposal is this. In lieu of these barbaric executions, we hold a symbolic Hunger Games.”

“You wanna have another Hunger Games with the Capitol children?” Haymitch asks. _The ones you killed,_ you think bitterly. There’s a tense silence after Haymitch’s question. “You… you’re joking,” he says weakly.

“Not in the slightest,” Coin answers.

“Was this Plutarch’s idea?” Haymitch asks in disbelief.

“It was mine. It balances the need for revenge with the least loss of human life,” Coin sighs. “Now, you may cast your votes.”

“No,” Clarke says immediately. 

“No, obviously not,” Monty agrees. “This is crazy.” 

“I think it’s more than fair,” Murphy says sullenly. “Snow’s got a granddaughter, right? I say yes.”

“So do I,” Raven declares. “Let them have a taste of it.”

“You guys, this way of thinking is what started these uprisings,” Clarke implores, leaning forward.

“I vote no,” Derrick says steadily. “With Clarke. And so would Luna, if she were here.”

“Well, she’s not, because Snow killed her,” Murphy snaps.

“We need to stop viewing each other as enemies,” Coin sighs, sounding exasperated. “It’s down to Bellamy and Haymitch.”

You remember Octavia smiling at you in the bunker, pressing your pin into her hand a little over two years ago. You remember her smiling in a flower field in Twelve, dancing with you at Luna’s wedding. The sound of her voice, the exact blue-green shade of her eyes. 

“I get to kill Snow,” you say quietly, and you can feel Clarke tense up next to you.

“I expected no less of you,” Coin says with a smile.

“Then I vote ‘yes,’” you decide. “For Octavia.”

“Haymitch?” Coin presses.

He glances at you, then looks at Coin. “I’m with the Mockingjay.”

“That carries the vote,” says Coin, sounding immensely pleased. “We'll announce the Games tonight, after the execution.”

* * *

“You look as handsome as ever,” Effie says quietly, fussing over the Mockingjay uniform and adjusting your pin. She’s uncharacteristically subdued, and you’ve only seen her like this the night before the Quarter Quell started.

“Effie,” you say, as she ruffles your hair, making it look slightly messy, just the way you usually end up making it unintentionally judging by all the times you run your hand through your hair.

“Yes, dear?”

“Can you get a nightlock pin out of my bag?” you ask.

To her credit, Effie doesn’t ask questions. She even slots it into where it goes on your shoulder.

“Whatever you’re planning, Bellamy,” she murmurs. “I hope it goes the way you need it to.”

“Thanks,” you say, taking her hand. “For everything.”

* * *

“Welcome to the new Arkadia!” Coin says into the microphone, standing tall behind her podium at the end of the main avenue in the Capitol. Today, on the Avenue of the Tributes, all of Arkadia, a free Arkadia, will watch more than a mere spectacle. We are gathered to witness a historic moment of justice. Today, the greatest friend to the revolution will fire the shot to end all wars.”

You walk slowly and deliberately down the avenue, feeling thousands of pairs of eyes on you, the survivors, the rebels, the ex-loyalists. Snow is chained to a post at the end of the avenue, blood speckled on his white shirt, smiling gruesomely. When you approach your destination, you raise your bow and nock an arrow.

“May his arrow signify the end of tyranny and the beginning of a new era,” Coin declares, and then she angles her face to look at you with a smile. “Mockingjay, may your aim be as true as your heart is pure.”

Snow’s smile widens, and you think of Clarke lying next to you and smiling, Luna’s arms around you and Octavia’s smile, Haymitch’s hand on your shoulder and slipping on the ice with Clarke holding onto you. All the smallest details, like the mole above Clarke’s lip and the way she likes to touch the scar above yours, the song that Octavia used to sing every day when she was ten.

_Remember who the real enemy is._

At the last moment, you raise your bow, and then there’s an arrow protruding from Coin’s chest, blood staining the concrete as she falls. The crowd erupts into demands to kill Snow and hundreds of people flood the avenue, running to Snow. They’ll kill him; you’re sure of it. You twist your head to bite the pill, but your teeth sink into flesh instead. You look up and you meet Clarke’s eyes, oceans of defiance.

“Run,” she says quietly, and in the fray, the two of you are separated yet again.

* * *

“I’ll say this for you, Bellamy, you don’t disappoint,” Haymitch says quietly, the two of you sitting on the train as it makes its way to District Twelve. You don’t respond; you just stare blankly out the window. “Well, Plutarch gave me a letter for you—”

“I don’t want it.”

“You never make it easy, do you?” Haymitch grumbles. “Fine, I’ll read it to you.”

He unfolds the paper and begins to read.

_Bellamy, maybe the country was shocked tonight by your arrow, but once again, I was not. You were exactly who I believed you were, and I’m proud of you. I really am. I wish I could give you a proper goodbye. But with both Coin and Snow dead, the fate of the country will be decided tonight, and I can't be seen at your side. Tonight, the 12 district leaders will call for a free election. There's little doubt that Indra will carry it; she’s become the voice of reason. I'm sorry so much burden fell on you. I know you'll never escape it. "But if I had to put you through it again for this outcome, I would. The war's over. We'll enter that sweet period where everyone agrees not to repeat the recent horrors. Of course, we're fickle, stupid beings, with poor memories and a great gift for self-destruction. Although, who knows? Maybe this time, we'll learn. I've secured you a ride out of the Capitol. It's better for you to be out of sight. And when the time is right, Commander Trikru will pardon you. The country will find its peace. And I hope you can find yours. Plutarch._

You swallow and wipe a few stray tears away from your cheeks and face Haymitch. “So what now?” you ask quietly.

“Home,” he replies. “Now, we go home.”

* * *

“I couldn’t let you go without a proper goodbye,” Effie says softly, leaning up to kiss you on the cheek. She pulls away, and sets a gloved hand against your face, her cheeks pink in the cold. “It’s your job to take care of yourself now, Bellamy.”

You nod, trying your best not to cry.

“And promise me you’ll find it,” she whispers.

“Find what?” you ask.

“The life of a Victor,” she sniffles, then turns to Haymitch. “You take care of him, too.”

“I will,” Haymitch promises, and it sounds achingly sincere.

* * *

You find her cat in your house in Victor’s Village.

“She’s gone,” you choke out.

The cat stares blankly at you.

“I said, _SHE’S GONE!”_ you scream, throwing a teacup at the wall near the cat’s head, watching it shatter into a thousand pieces. _“SHE’S GONE, AND SHE’S NEVER COMING BACK! OCTAVIA IS DEAD! GET OUT!”_

You sink to your knees, shaking. _“Get out.”_

And with violent sobs that tear through your body, sobs that make your lungs scream in agony, you finally let yourself cry.

* * *

Her hair, now just past her chin and in gentle waves, is gently blown about in the telltale soft breeze that signals the end of winter as she stands tall in the middle of the field of wildflowers by Victor’s village. She’s in a cream sweater and jeans, looking normal, and almost at peace.

Your feet carry you towards her, your fingers drifting towards her shoulder. “Clarke?”

"I'm so sorry," she says quietly. "About Octavia."

* * *

In the beginning, in the first two weeks or so, there are days where you don’t see her at all, days where you don’t speak. In your sleep, it’s more memories than dreams, memories that you want to get rid of forever. Indra pardons you within some time, and everything settles into true silence.

Except you. Not you.

* * *

“Why won’t you just talk to me?” you ask her, finding her in the wildflower field. “Why can’t we just go back to the way it was?”

“What do you want me to say, Bellamy?” she asks, her eyes watery. “That I’m okay?”

“You don’t have to be okay, Clarke,” you murmur, touching her arm. “It doesn’t have to be okay all the time.”

“I’m afraid,” she says, shrugging off your touch. “That I could still do it. Kill you. That it’s not gone.”

She looks you in the eyes. “You know I need you, right?”

You blink and nod. “And you know _I_ need _you.”_

“And that’s why it scares me so much,” she whispers. “And I’m scared that every time I touch you, I’ll do something I can’t take back. I don’t know who I am anymore, Bellamy.”

“You’re Clarke,” you say simply. “Clarke, we can start over. Just us. Friends.” _For now._ And then you take her hand. You hear her gasp softly.

“Tell me,” you breathe. “Do you want to hurt me?”

She blinks, concentrating on your interlaced fingers. “No,” she murmurs. “No, I don’t.”

* * *

There’s screaming and nightmares and there’s _pain,_ so much of it. There are moments where Clarke goes still, and you know she’s trying to sort out her memories. She’s so close, and at some point the two of you decide she’s finally able to distinguish all of her real memories. But even so, it’s not easy. 

There’s trauma and there’s anger, and there are days where you can’t get out of bed, days when you grip the hilt of a kitchen knife tightly, deciding, deciding, what are you going to do?

There are days where you run until your legs don’t work anymore and you scream in the woods until you can’t breathe, and even that doesn’t always ease the crushing weight on your chest, the perpetual lump in your throat, the way you’re always on the edge. There’s arguing and silence between you and Clarke, and sometimes there are tight embraces, her golden hair filling your vision, the short waves dissolving through your fingers like threads of sunlight.

* * *

Derrick writes to her one day, and she reads you the letter. 

_You'll be happy to hear that Bellamy’s mother has been training new medical units in the Capitol. Echo has been promoted to a Captain in district 2 to help keep order and security. And I am loving every moment with Adria, who reminds me every day of her mother. We've all suffered so much. But we owe it to their memories and to our children to do our best with these lives. I hope you're both finding some peace. Derrick._

The two of you are sitting in the doorway of your house, watching the rain pour. Your backs are against the doorframe and your knees are pulled to your chests, and Clarke gently sets the letter down when she’s done reading it.

“Are we going to be at peace?” she asks.

“Someday,” you promise, and with drops of rain coming in through the open door and sprinkling your faces with small beads of water, you lean forward and you kiss her.

* * *

The first night it happens is like fireworks exploding in your bloodstream. It’s like a song the two of you had already learned the words to, the rhythm of your bodies moving together like a dance the two of you had always known.

But there is one night that makes a difference, where it’s you and Clarke and your warm, bare skin, your forearms braced on either side of her head. She reaches up and brushes away a curl of your hair matted to your hair by sweat, her flushed lips parting to ask—

“You love me,” she breathes. “Real or not real?”

You lower your head and kiss her softly on her forehead. “Real.”

* * *

In the end, everything falls into place, or as much as it can given the circumstances. During the wedding, you think you see Octavia’s hair, and you think you hear her laugh. But this time, it makes you smile. In the end, after just under a decade of trying to convince Clarke, there are three children, two with curly brown hair and one with blonde waves, August and Atalanta with your freckles and Clarke’s blue eyes. 

August with his pale skin and light hair; and Atalanta with her honeyed tone and dark curls; and then Octavia, with blue eyes and a fair tone and dark hair, looking almost exactly like her aunt when the first Octavia was a baby. 

In the end, there are still nightmares. There are still memories. But in the end, there's Clarke's riotous smile and her fingers laced with yours. There are the terrors of sleeping, of letting your eyes fall shut, but in the end, there are reasons to open them, too.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> this is 139 pages in google docs so y'all better enjoy this


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